Kenzie laughed a little, the way you laugh when a kid says something silly. Then she followed his finger.
And she stopped laughing.
I watched her whole face change. The color went out of it, and then came back in red blotches up her neck. She took one step backward and her heel sank into the grass.
“Corbin, honey,” I said. “Miss Kenzie’s dad passed away.”
“No,” Corbin said. “He didn’t. He’s right there. He’s older. His hair is gray now. But it’s the man from the fishing picture.”
The fishing picture.
I knew exactly what he meant. Years ago, when Kenzie was teaching Corbin feeling words and family words, she brought in a worn photograph from home. A little girl, maybe nine, on a wooden dock, holding up a tiny sunfish and grinning with two front teeth missing. A man was crouched beside her in a ball cap, laughing.
