I leaned closer to watch as Beau pressed play on the news clip he’d been watching. One of the students who organized the protest was being interviewed, along with an esteemed Deaf actress who’d received an honorary degree from Gallaudet, and then the hearing president whose election caused the initial uproar.

As we watched the rest of the interview, I had to sympathize with the student and the actress. The news anchor was making it difficult for them to get a word in edgewise even though he was the one asking all the questions about the protest and what they hoped to achieve. They looked nothing but frustrated throughout the entire interview, almost always being interrupted when they were trying to sign something. I was always annoyed by the same thing.

TOO LONG, I signed when the interview was over.

TRUE, Beau agreed. “But maybe . . . clip some . . . ?”

DON’T KNOW, I signed back. I was already worried it would be hard to keep our classmates interested for ten minutes.

“We’ll make . . . work,” Beau said with a firm nod.

And we did, clipping the video down to an acceptable minute and a half, mostly shots of the students marching on Capitol Hill and Gallaudet’s front gates closed up. Beau worked some type of computer magic to get the clip inserted into the PowerPoint.

Then we moved into editing, revising our works-cited page at the end of the presentation, making notecards with speech cues. We’d both gotten so tangled up into the work that it came as a shock when Dana—I hadn’t even realized she was still here—flipped the living room lights on, walking into our line of sight. She was speaking to Beau, so I sat back against the couch, stretching my arms above my head.

When Dana was finished speaking, whatever she’d said to Beau suddenly had him on his feet, turning toward the foyer behind us. I was so used to Beau becoming flushed all the time that it came as a surprise when his face went ashen instead. His lips formed the words hey, Dad, and that was the missing piece I needed.

Beau was the mirror image of the man who was removing his coat and slipping his shoes off in the foyer, maybe just thirty or so years younger. The man had an authoritative air about him, wearing nicely ironed clothes, his graying hair brushed back in a somewhat sophisticated hairstyle. He introduced himself as Doctor Watson when he approached, holding out a hand for me to shake.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, this uncomfortable feeling creeping up my spine when Doctor Watson’s gaze zeroed in on my hearing aids.

“Homework?” Doctor Watson said, nodding to our mess on the coffee table.