her official sign-in card.
When he saw Duane’s tan jacket, Travis uncrossed his arms.
His lower jaw shifted from side to side, the muscle working hard under his ear, but his mouth stayed closed.
He leaned forward in his seat, his hands dropping to his knees, staring across thirty feet of polished hardwood like his eyes were failing him.
My father did not look toward the bleachers once.
He stepped past the brass baseline marker, the worn rubber tip of his hickory cane squeaking twice on the polished pine floor.
The sound was sharp and clear in the quiet gym, cutting right through the hum of the overhead air handlers and the distant rattle of popcorn bags at the booster stand.
“Number seventeen,” Howard’s voice boomed through the four metal loudspeakers, “Kaylee, escorted this evening by her grandfather, Mr. Duane Ostrem.”
Kaylee took three fast steps toward him and slid
