“Because of what Grandpa said. That I was the youngest to see a dead person. So I wondered if you ever had.”

I feel him looking at me. I don’t look back. If I do, he’ll know I’m lying.

“No,” I say. “I never had before.”

“What about your mom?”

“I was too young to remember, but I don’t think so.”

Max offers a soft mmm and looks out his window again. “I wonder how many more I’ll see in my life.”

“Can we not talk about this?” I say.

“Okay.”

How casual my son is about death. I sometimes wonder if the detachment with his own experiences is part of his grieving process or if it’s just that. Detachment. I think of what he told Willow when she asked what it was like to see his dead father.

He didn’t look angry anymore.

And that’s true. Riley didn’t look angry in death. But there’re other faces of death that aren’t nearly so calm. Twisted faces of rage, pain, and mind-shattering fear.

I pray my son never has to see any of those.

* * *

Four blocks later, we arrive.

Middleton Prep is an exclusive private school for sixth through twelfth grades, and my father insisted on Max going there as long as we live back home. I wanted to take some kind of noble stand and insist public school was just fine, but I didn’t consider this for long. I won’t sacrifice a better education for my son out of principle. Max struggles with school enough as it is, and I can’t argue against sending him somewhere the teachers are paid fairly and the average class size is fifteen.

We bypass the drop-off lane and park; I want to escort Max in on his first day of sixth grade. I start to open my door when he says, “You don’t need to come in.”

“You sure? You don’t want me to come inside?”

“No, I’m okay.”

I want to ask him why, and I don’t want to ask him why. I don’t want to make him second-guess himself, make him crack this delicate shell of courage that he’s apparently been able to build.

He sees my struggle and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Gotta grow up some time,” he says.

This simple statement breaks my heart. I reach out, touch the side of his face, and force back the tears. A few still escape, but I don’t break down.

“You’re a strong kid, you know that?” I say.

“I suppose.”

I lean in and kiss him on the head, then Max reaches down, picks up his backpack and lunch, and gets out of the car. I decide to get out anyway, if only to watch him walk inside, because driving immediately away feels too much like abandonment.

I call out after he crosses the drop-off lane and reaches the sidewalk. He turns and offers a wave, and for a moment, I think I see a trace of a smile, though perhaps the glare of the early sun is tricking me into thinking so.