The woman in red pressed her fingers to her lips.
“Yes.”
“Michael Alvarez.”
A broad-shouldered man in the back gave a little salute.
Mrs. Parker began to cry.
Not loudly. It was the kind of crying that seemed to happen before a person had decided whether they were ready for it.
I turned toward Owen.
He was watching her with a serious expression I recognized from homework, chess games, and the rare occasions when he believed something mattered enough not to joke about.
He raised the microphone.
“Mrs. Parker taught all of these people.”
A murmur traveled through the auditorium.
“Not all in the same year,” Owen added quickly. “That would be weird.”
A few people laughed, including Mrs. Parker.
The tension broke just enough for everyone to breathe again.
Owen continued.
“When I was helping Mrs. Parker clean out her shed this summer, I found a box.”
Mrs. Parker looked sharply at him.
