He throws up his hands. “Okay, I won’t argue. To get back at the Prick, the Jesus Freaks smuggled in radios, and thus we knew—”

“Thus?”

“Thus we knew that the astronauts made it! A small step—”

Sara interrupts. “Look at that guy. Robert. He still blows me away.” Now dressed in green from hat to socks, aussie Robert is standing up and making those little circles in the air with his finger. Sara and Willie go silent.

I bet they’re trying to figure out what he’s doing. It hits me. “Next year, he’ll do this.” With my right index finger I jab at the air. Seven stabs.

Sara can’t figure it out. “What?”

“Push-but-ton phone.”

*   *   *

Two more times Willie goes through the line and comes back with plates piled high with hot dogs, hamburgers, slaw, potato salad, chips, corn on the cob, and watermelon. After all that, he goes back for two big slabs of cake. As he scrapes the crumbs, Sara swallows the last tiny bite of her cheeseburger.

“You’re the only person who can keep up with me,” he says.

“Yeah, hour for hour, I sure can. But you’ve eaten five times as much.”

That is a smile on his face. I’m pretty sure.

He pats his stomach, and Margie gathers up the trash while at the other end of the field the visiting youths assemble on bleachers. The sun is low in the sky. Someone throws the switch to turn on a bank of yellow lights, and Mr. Bob stands at a microphone in front of the bleachers.

“Campers and counselors, most of you have met our guests, but I’m pleased to introduce them officially. They are the Sand Hills Community Youth Chorale, and they will provide the evening’s entertainment. Welcome them, please.”

Starting with “Shenandoah,” they go through the standards that let a choir show its stuff. They’re good, every bit as good as our glee club at Crosstown High. The sky goes pale pink and orange, then red and purple, then deep blue.

The choir director speaks. “We thank you for welcoming us into your midst. You have touched us and warmed our hearts. We leave you with this inspiring song from Man of La Mancha.”

Sara turns to Willie, “Oh God, here it comes!”

“Yep, we couldn’t escape.”

“The Ideal Cripple’s Code of Conduct,” Sara groans. Margie covers her face with both hands.

The choir sings “The Impossible Dream.” Willie and Sara mouth the words:

To fight the unbeatable foe.

To bear with unbearable sorrow.

Their lip-sync is clearly a standard routine, employing dramatic gestures from the ham actor’s standard bag of tricks—hands over hearts, terrified nail biting, defiant fist raising. With stern looks, counselors discourage the mirth that spreads, inappropriately, from group to group. But they keep at it:

To right the unrightable wrong.

To love, pure and chaste from afar.

To try when your arms are too weary—