Nora walked across the hall alone, past the head table, past every carefully placed seat, and lowered herself onto a tiny chair at table 19, between the boy with the dinner roll fortress and a girl holding a purple crayon.
“I should have said it years ago,” she whispered. “Not on a balcony. Not to a camera.” I told her I had not put it on the projector to punish her. I put it there because I was tired of being the only one who remembered. The little boy slid a crayon drawing toward me without a word. It was a robot, badly colored, with a cardboard body and an enormous smile.
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