have found the rhythm of it.
He turned and saw her watching.
She saw him — truly saw him — and for one second she saw her seven-year-old boy, the one who had campaigned for the Sprite, the one who had worn the red shirt, the one whose crooked front tooth had been in the school photograph on her nightstand for twenty years.
And then she saw a stranger.
A grown man who had never met her.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“Daniel,” she said.
He frowned. “It’s Danny.”
She walked toward him. “Your mother bought you a Sprite at a rest stop on Route 9. You went around the side of the building and couldn’t find the door again.”He looked at her with the particular unsettled expression of someone who has been handed information they don’t know where to put. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“What’s the earliest thing
