I set the pocket watch back on the lace runner, aligning it exactly with the edge of the wood.
The glass face of the watch was cracked across the center, a tiny hairline fracture that divided the numbers two and eight.
I had kept that watch in a drawer for fifteen years before putting it on the mantle.
I heard the yellow school bus brake at the corner, its air brakes hissing in the afternoon quiet.
***
The high school parking lot was a sea of yellow buses and rusted sedans when I pulled the Buick into the visitor space at three.
Iris was already waiting by the flagpole, her backpack slung over one shoulder.
She was talking to a tall boy who stood with his hands clasped behind his back, military style.
Even from fifty yards away, I could see the boy was wearing a pressed blue shirt with the collar turned down perfectly.
“That is him,” Iris said as she climbed into the passenger seat, pointing through the windshield.
“The one in the blue shirt?” I asked.
“That is Ryan,” she said, her voice rising with that nervous high pitch.
She started twirling her hair again, her eyes fixed on him as he walked toward a clean white sedan.
The boy turned his head toward our Buick, his expression measured and calm.
His face was Arthur’s face from twenty years ago, the same high cheekbones and the same slight dip in the chin.
