my father’s hickory cane and the clear cellophane around the rose stem.
In row one of the bleachers, Travis stood up.
He did not stand up to clap, and he did not stand up to leave the gym.
He rose slowly, six feet tall in his dark work jacket, his jaw shifting hard from side to side as he stared down at center court where Kaylee was handing my father the red rose.
The final gym buzzer echoed off the cinder block walls twenty minutes later as the crowd filed out toward the parking lot.
Howard sat behind his gray steel desk in the athletic director office, checking his brass wristwatch while the noise in the hallway slowly died down.
The metal desk was piled high with volleyball scorebooks and yellow statistical sheets from the home match.
Travis walked into the office without knocking, pulled a blue paper folder from
