Frank tried again.
Then he found it himself.
“‘You’re my best buddy.’”
He sat back.
For several seconds, nobody said anything.
Then Frank wiped his cheek.
“Kid still draws terrible dinosaurs.”
I laughed.
Later, Frank nodded toward Eliam.
“Everybody wants to give me the word.”
He looked at my husband.
“Your husband was the first person stubborn enough to wait for me to find it.”
On the drive home, Eliam apologized.
“I should’ve told you I was on leave and that somebody needed me. I could’ve stopped there.”
“Yes.”
“I was afraid you’d ask questions.”
“I probably would’ve.”
He waited.
“I don’t need every secret somebody trusts you with,” I said. “But I need to know when my life is being rearranged around one.”
“You’re right.”
“And I shouldn’t have followed you,” I admitted.
He looked over.
“I understand why.”
“I know. I still shouldn’t have.”
The next morning, Eliam picked up his laptop and keys.
Same routine.
“I’m going to the learningUVR center.”
“Frank?”
“Yeah.”
“Anything you can’t tell me?”
“Most of it.”
“Good.”
I pointed toward the counter.
“These actually do need to go with you.”
His medication.
He laughed and pocketed it.
A few days later, he sent me a photograph.
Frank sat at a table with his dinosaur lunchbox beside him. His grandson was there too, writing something on a scrap of paper.
Frank leaned toward the words.
Eliam sat several feet away.
Waiting.
I could have enlarged the picture.
I could have asked what the boy had written.
Instead, I put my phone down.
I already knew what belonged to me.
