He stepped up to the microphone. It was set too high. Mr. Lowe hurried over and lowered it.
Caleb looked out at the audience.
He searched for a second. Then he found me. Our eyes met. I gave him the smallest nod I could, because I didn’t trust myself to do anything bigger.
Then he looked up. Not at the audience. Up. Toward the high ceiling of the gym, toward the metal beams and the old caged lights.
“This one’s for my dad,” he said quietly.
The microphone caught it. The whole gym heard.
And then he started to play.
The first notes were the ones I’d been hearing through the wall at night. G. C. G. D. Slow. I knew them before the first chord had finished ringing.
I put my hand over my mouth.
He started to sing.
His voice was soft at first, so soft you had to lean forward. It cracked on the second line. He stopped, swallowed, and kept going.
