“Grandpa,” he whispered. “Everybody’s looking.”
“Let them look,” I said. “Pancakes or eggs?”
He looked at me.
“Pancakes,” he said.
Part Eight: Dr. Prentiss
Dr. Prentiss intercepted us within two minutes.
He came striding across the gymnasium from the front of the room. A young man. Late thirties, maybe. Slim. Clean-shaven. Wearing a perfectly tailored gray suit and a silk bow tie with little gold anchors on it.
He had the kind of polish you get from a lot of expensive schools. Princeton, I found out later. Then a doctorate in education from Columbia.
He stopped beside our table.
“Mr. Halloran,” he said.
He said it quietly. Pleasantly. With a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“I respect the emotional sentiment here,” he said. “I truly do. But this is a father-son event. I communicated those parameters to your family.”
“You did,” I said.
He waited for me to say something else. I didn’t.
