table beside him.
“But that isn’t the reason I came.”
Mrs. Carter had stopped holding her cup. Both her hands rested in her lap.
Evan said he knew people remembered high school differently. Some had loved it. Some had struggled with things nobody else knew. He was not there to decide whose memories were allowed.
“Mine were lonely,” he said. “I was also very good at pretending they weren’t.”
I looked at his hands. They were trembling slightly, and he was letting them.
He described theapplication workshop. The form he
