“That’s Dad’s shirt,” I said finally.
“Yeah.”
“Where did you get it?”
“The box in the garage.”
I’d packed all of David’s clothes into boxes about a year after he died. I couldn’t give them away and couldn’t look at them, so they’d been sitting in the garage under a tarp ever since.
“It looks nice on you,” I said, and my voice did something strange in the middle.
He shrugged. But I saw his ears go a little pink.
Then I saw what was leaning against the wall by the front door.
The guitar case.
David’s guitar case. Black, scuffed, with a sticker from a gas station in Tennessee that David had always meant to peel off and never did.
“Caleb,” I said carefully. “Are you doing something today? At the assembly?”
He took a long time to chew his cereal.
