“Mrs. Davis,” he said. “You don’t remember me.”
I stared at him. I had no idea who he was. A doctor? Someone from the insurance company? A lawyer?
He set his briefcase down on one of the empty chairs.
“But you paid for my lunch,” he said, “every day in third grade.”
The room seemed to go still. Even the heart monitor seemed to slow down.
I searched his face. I tried to find something familiar in it. He was in his fifties, maybe. Successful. Expensive suit. Good shoes. Nothing about him looked like anybody I’d ever known.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t…”
“Malcolm,” he said. “Malcolm Peterson. I became Malcolm Chen after I was adopted. When I was ten.”
And suddenly, I saw him.
Franklin Elementary School, in South Seattle. 1978.
A thin little boy at the end of the long cafeteria table. Dark hair that stuck up in the back no matter what. A plaid shirt three sizes too big, sleeves rolled up four times. Sneakers with the toes worn through.
