I knelt on the cold concrete floor, my fingers working the metal slider of his pack where a stray thread of his red scarf had caught in the teeth. His small hands gripped the canvas straps tightly, his knuckles turning white under the pressure.
“There,” I said, freeing the fabric and pulling the zipper closed with a smooth slide. “You have your history book?”
Noah nodded once, his eyes fixed on his boots. “I kept it in the front pocket so it would not get bent.”
He climbed into the passenger seat of the station wagon, his small legs dangling above the floor mat. I got in behind the wheel and reached into the center console for my sunglasses.
My fingers brushed against something small, heavy, and metallic resting in the bottom of the plastic cup holder. I pulled it out, expecting to find one of Jason’s lost collar stays or a stray quarter.
It was a heavy gold cufflink, polished to a high shine, shaped like a small square with rounded edges.
I held it up to the dashboard light. The engraved initials on the face were M and B, joined by a delicate cursive flourish.
Jason only wore silver accessories, and his middle initial was T.
I placed the gold piece in my coat pocket, the metal feeling cold against my palm.
The school drop-off lane was a slow line of idling engines and red brake lights reflecting on the damp pavement. I pulled the station wagon up to the curb near the main entrance and turned to Noah, who was still holding his backpack straps with both hands.
“Let me help you with your hood, sweetie,” I said, leaning over to adjust the collar of his jacket.
He looked out the window at the other children walking toward the heavy double doors of the school. “Why is Dad never home for breakfast anymore, Mom?”
