“How was Mr. Vance?” I would ask.
“Fine.”
“What did you talk about?”
“He said it was hot.”
“And?”
“I said yeah.”
Yet Noah never missed a Saturday unless we were away.
Not during summer heat.
Not during cold October mornings.
Not even the morning after his prom.
Then, four years later, Mr. Vance died.
His son Aaron came to our door personally.
“My dad passed last night,” he told Noah.
Noah’s first question was, “Was he alone?”
“No. Claire and I were there.”
Noah nodded.
“When’s the funeral?”
