“You had help.”
“I told him not to tell you.”
“I’m aware.”
“So be mad at me.”
“I can multitask.”
He laughed, then grew quiet.
“There’s something I didn’t let Eliam tell you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
He told me about the dinosaur birthday card.
“I got tired of needing somebody between me and the words,” he said.
The next morning, Frank invited me to the learning center.
He was already sitting at a table with his dinosaur lunchbox beside him.
“Don’t laugh.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“Absolutely.”
He pulled the card from his folder.
The dinosaur on the front wore a party hat.
I reached for it.
Frank covered it with his hand.
“Don’t.”
He opened it.
His grandson’s handwriting filled the inside.
Frank began reading.
Slowly.
Sometimes he stopped.
Once, I knew the word immediately and almost supplied it.
Eliam glanced at me.
Neither of us spoke.
