up before he could answer.
I walked past the team bench toward the official scorer table. Howard stood behind the long table, tapping a blue ballpoint pen against his clipboards while checking his brass wristwatch.
“Brenda,” Howard said, looking up over his half-frame glasses. “I am closing the escort list in two minutes.”
“I have the card right here,” I said.
I pulled the white index card from my jacket pocket. I had written the name in thick black ink while standing on the porch two hours ago.
Howard took the card and held it under the desk lamp. He looked at the ink, then looked across the floor toward the bottom bleacher row where Travis sat with his arm around Mason.
“This says Duane,” Howard said.
“That is correct,” I said.
“Is Travis sick?” Howard asked. He lowered his voice, glancing toward the gymnasium doors. “I saw him driving
