Soon, too soon, we were called into the courtroom for the hearing. We were led in front of the bench. The judge entered in his black robe and quietly reviewed the documents. He was a short, stocky man with a large mustache. His expression was serious and never changed, not when he spoke or when he looked at anyone, including Wyatt. Bernice informed him of Wyatt’s progress and his temporary placement with us.

The judge nodded, touched his chin as he silently read. He looked up from his documents at Wyatt. “Well, this looks like quite a good report, young man,” he said. “How are things going in school?”

“Good,” Wyatt said.

“Do you like your teachers?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s your favorite subject?”

“Probably language arts,” he said. “Actually science.”

The judge looked at Ernest, then at me. “He’s been doing well?”

“I don’t know what to say,” I told him, hesitating. “He’s followed our rules.”

I could see the judge was waiting for more. For some reason I felt nervous. “He really is so well behaved, Your Honor. He’s been a joy in our home.”

The judge smiled at Wyatt. All the years I stood in the courtroom with other children, all those days spent giving reports, it was all here again, yet it felt so different being a foster parent. The moment remained still, a night awaiting sunlight, some glimmer of lost hope on the horizon. Some moments remain preserved in time, remembered perfectly, and I hoped this would be true in the short time I spent with Wyatt.

It was a short hearing, of course. The judge praised Wyatt for doing well in school and showing respect in foster care. He placed him in his grandparents’ custody and set a three-month review.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Wyatt said, as politely as a rehearsed line, though I knew, and certainly the judge, too, that it was sincere.

We exited to the lobby. Thomas thanked Bernice and us for taking care of Wyatt for a few days. I looked at Wyatt, and he came to hug me. I held him there, closing my eyes. Then he hugged Ernest.

“Ave atque vale,” he said to us.

“What?” I said.

“It’s Latin for hail and farewell.”

Later, I would remember Ray-Ray using this phrase the night before he died. At the moment, I felt too light-headed to catch it. As Wyatt and his grandparents walked out together, I put on my sunglasses and felt on the brink of collapse. I had to take Ernest’s arm to brace myself as we stepped outside.

In the parking lot, Wyatt turned and looked at me one last time, a photograph frozen in the moment, timeless. He was a snapshot of Ray-Ray’s spirit, looking back at me under the bright sun. He waved. I closed my eyes a moment, and when I opened them, Wyatt and his grandparents were in the car. I heard a gust of wind. I heard the roar of a plane overhead.

In that moment I had a memory of Ray-Ray falling asleep on the floor when he was little. I picked him up and carried him to bed. Another memory came: Ray-Ray sick on a rainy day, lying in his bed with a washcloth on his forehead. I removed the thermometer from his mouth and leaned down to kiss the top of his head. Ray-Ray in his pajamas. Wanting to be held. Wanting to be rocked to sleep and sung to. Wanting to sit on my lap and look at picture books. Getting out of his bed and sneaking down the hallway to crawl into bed with Ernest and me. I pretended to be asleep sometimes, letting him snuggle. Those memories flooded my mind in an instant, and I waved goodbye to him.

The car pulled out of the lot. My heart was racing. “Wait—,” I breathed, and Ernest embraced me. He knew what was happening.

“Wait,” I breathed again.

*

A year earlier, I had driven up to Calvin Hoff’s place alone. I didn’t want to tell anyone, not even Ernest. I didn’t know what to expect. I suppose I was looking for my own personal peace or healing, but mostly I wanted closure. I needed to tell him who I was, remind him what he did. That morning I had called Calvin’s sister, Madelyn Cheney, a retired nurse who attended the church near our house. We had met once, briefly, at a church supper I attended several years earlier. “He has lung cancer,” she said on the phone. “It’s really hard for us right now. He has in-home care.”

“This is more for me than him,” I told her. “For my own healing. It’s been almost fifteen years since we lost Ray-Ray.”

“I understand,” she said. She hesitated. “He can’t really have much of a conversation. It’s his mind.”

“This is more for me,” I said again.

She was silent a moment, and then she gave me the address.

The house was north of town on a winding gravel road that curved uphill. When I reached the house, I saw two dogs lying in the front yard. The house was brick, with a covered porch and no garage. I pulled into the dirt drive and saw a woman come to the door. When I got out, the dogs were at the fence, barking.

“They won’t hurt you,” the woman called from the porch.

I let myself in the front gate and the dogs were at my feet, their tails wagging hard. Somehow they never jumped up on me. They followed me to the porch, where the woman introduced herself as Ellen, the caretaker.

“Come in,” she said. “Madelyn said you would be stopping by. He’s resting in the back room. I should tell you his mind isn’t what it used to be. He’s not saying much today.”