“Let’s see what he has to say,” she said. “You can unfold the airplane.”

“But I’ll break it!”

“It’s okay. He’ll make another.” I’m sure, Linnea thought. “Inside I think he wrote a message, just for you. Open it!”

Hope carefully unfolded the paper, her pink tongue worrying her lip. Linnea watched, realizing that this was the child’s first paper airplane. She looked up at John and smiled her gratitude that he’d given Hope something to be happy about.

Hope spread the paper flat and slowly read out the words. “HELLO. MY NAME IS JOHN. WHAT IS YOURS?” She turned toward the window and shouted, “My name is Hope!”

John put his hand to his ear and shook his head.

“He can’t hear you, honey.”

“Can I send him an airplane?”

“It will be hard to fly an airplane up to the second-floor window.” She tapped her lips. “I know. How about we write him a note and leave it for him in a special place?”

“Okay!” Hope was all into the game. “How will he know where to find it?”

“I’ll tell his mama. Miss Emmi.”

Hope nodded with enthusiasm. Then she asked, “Miss Emmi is John’s mother?”

“She is.”

“Can we write him a note now?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Hope turned and waved to John again. She cupped her mouth and yelled, “I am writing you a note. You have to find it!”

John whistled and surprised them by holding up another paper airplane. He stood wide-legged, the window gaping open before him Don’t fall, Linnea thought, unbidden. This time, he pointed the airplane directly at Linnea, head bent in concentration as he took aim. She imagined his green eyes, intensely focused. Then, with a quick movement, he released it.

Hope squealed with delight. This plane traveled farther than the first, in a direct line over the fence toward Linnea. Hope was after it like a dog on the hunt, arms out, crying, “I got it!” She lurched for it, but the little paper plane sailed past her grasp and landed gracefully on the gravel a few feet away from Linnea’s feet. She smiled as she watched Hope pounce on it.

“Can I open it?” she called back.

“Knock yourself out.”

Hope’s pudgy fingers struggled to unfold the paper plane against the gravel. The folds were neat and tight, and Linnea thought how typical it was of John to be so precise. In a flash, she remembered watching his intense concentration when he constructed his architectural models. It was the last hobby she’d ever suspected the lowcountry surfer dude would have. John’s mind was a wonder—brilliant in computer programming, inventive, creative. His outward behavior was loose and relaxed. But his mind… It was as if he could harness a tornado of ideas into a powerful laser focus, in both his work and his hobby. He’d showed off his models in his condo on glass shelves like the works of art they were—the Eiffel Tower, the Chrysler Building, and his first, a train depot. Each had taken years to build. And now, she thought with a laugh, paper airplanes.