“I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” His fingers flex lightly on my arm, and I get goose bumps.

I watch his face for a full three seconds before I gently pull my arm back. “I told Ms. Birdie I would get the pans from the shed.”

My stomach is all mixed up when I leave Julian’s room. I’m thinking about those pictures in the trophy case, Julian’s knee almost touching mine in history this afternoon, the way he snapped at me just now when I was only trying to help.

It’s dark and dingy in the shed, with boxes stacked to the ceiling and assorted other knickknacks lying around. Behind a box marked JEFFREY in bright blue marker are the steam pans Ms. Birdie needs. I move the box to the floor to get to them. The box isn’t sealed shut, and I catch sight of a newspaper clipping from the Meridien Register on top.

LOCAL LINEMAN DIES IN TRAGIC ACCIDENT

With three pans in my hand, I hold back the flap and pull the clipping from the box. The article is about Jeffrey Jackson, Julian’s dad.

“Mr. Jackson played football at Coastal Texas Community College before moving back to Meridien and securing a job as a lineman with Gulf Electric. He knew the risks but enjoyed serving his community, explains Eleanor Jackson, Jeffrey’s mother.” Below the article, there’s a picture of Mr. Jackson with a young Julian on his shoulders, taken outside of Hartwig Field at Crenshaw. Mr. Jackson holds a football in his hands, and Julian is wearing a tiny Guardsmen jersey with the number one on it. “Mr. Jackson and his mother recently purchased the abandoned property at 4859 Main Street in Meridien, with plans to open a youth community center in the future. Ms. Eleanor Jackson had no comment on how that project will now proceed without him. Arrangements for Mr. Jackson are being handled by the Crossroads Church of Meridien,” it reads underneath.

Buried under the article in the box are the same pictures I found in the trophy case this afternoon. Even in the darkness of the shed, I can spot my father and Julian’s, smiling next to each other. There are a few other pictures, too. Candid shots. In the first one I pick up, my father and Jeffrey Jackson stand with their arms thrown over each other’s shoulders on the football field, sweat pouring down their faces as they smile widely.

Another newspaper clipping flutters in the slight breeze coming through the open shed door.

HIGH SCHOOL ATHLETES LEND A HAND WITH LOCAL CHARITY

Beneath the headline is a picture of my father and Jeffrey, together again. This time, they’re loading stacks of wrapped Christmas presents into the back of a pickup truck.

“Elijah? Did you find the pans?”