“Son,” I said. “Do you know what that means?”
“It means I’ll run into the smoke,” he said. “When somebody’s hurt.”
He looked at me.
“And I’ll climb up on the tractor,” he said. “When somebody’s scared.”
I put my hand on his shoulder.
The way I put it on a frightened nineteen-year-old in a burning hangar bay in 1972. The way the admiral put his on Caleb’s shoulder in a gymnasium full of men in expensive suits.
The way a father does.
“Then you’d better get your blazer straight,” I said. “We’ve got a breakfast to go to.”
He held my hand all the way to the car.
He’s eleven.
He still holds my hand.
