This is when I should beg. I could ask him to stay, tell him that we’ll come up with a plan, find a way for his family to make money, to pay for his grandfather, to keep Andrew safe. But each time I breathe deep, daring myself to speak, to say something that will make a difference—I can’t think of anything at all. Truth of the matter is I can’t promise Andrew will be safe, or that Owen’s mom will be able to earn enough on her own, without Owen working too.

I think I’m giving up. And it makes me sick to my stomach.

Owen and I sit together, his hand running slowly up and down my arm, our eyes trained out his window, for almost half an hour. Neither of us speaks. And when the cars pull up behind us, we don’t notice until there’s a loud rap on the passenger window behind me. We both jump, and when my mind realizes who I’m looking at, that sick feeling in my stomach starts to get replaced with something else.

Hope.

“What’s Mr. Chessman doing here?” Owen says, moving his arm from around me and opening his door. “What’s up?” I hear him ask as I sit in the cab, waiting a few seconds to climb out and join them. Just as I’m pushing my door open, I realize Mr. Chessman isn’t alone.

“Owen, I think you’ve met Mr. Mathison. He’s from DePaul?” I hear Mr. Chessman say. My lungs open wider.

“I have,” Owen says, shaking the man’s hand, just as he did the last time they met, after Owen’s game.

“Good to see you, Owen. Sorry for this impromptu visit, but I was hoping maybe we could chat. Just for a few minutes. Your mom home?” Mathison asks. He’s carrying the same briefcase he was when we saw him at the game, and I kind of think he’s wearing the same DePaul shirt and jacket, too. Owen nods to him and leads him and Mr. Chessman inside.

“I haven’t been inside yet, but I think she’s here,” Owen says, glancing toward his mother’s car in the driveway.

I smile at Mr. Chessman as they turn to walk up Owen’s driveway. He raises a brow in return, just a small symbol that he’s feeling as anxious as I am, that he has the same sliver of hope. I follow them inside, making myself part of whatever conversation is about to occur. I should probably give them privacy, but I’m too invested in the outcome.

Owen’s mom is walking from the kitchen, a dishtowel drying her hands, as we walk in, and when she realizes Owen and I aren’t alone, her footing stumbles. “Oh, I’m sorry. I…I didn’t know we were going to have company. Dwayne…hello…” she says, her face flushed as she looks around the house, a few boxes scattered. “I’m sorry, the place is a bit…out of sorts. We’re…we’re moving.”

She steps nervously over to Mr. Chessman, her hands wringing the towel repeatedly before she stretches a hand out to his. At the same time, he reaches for a hug, and she opens her arms quickly, just as he puts his down, offering a hand instead. “Oh, uh…sorry…” he laughs lightly. There’s a quiet between them, it lasts a few seconds, and no one really notices. But I notice. They finally hug, and I watch carefully, Mr. Chessman’s hand sliding with a tender touch around Owen’s mother’s back, his eyes closing when they embrace.

He loves her. I see it.

I stick to Owen’s side, our fingers linked under the table as we all gather around. Mr. Mathison pulls his briefcase to the table, flipping the gold latches open quickly, pulling out a thick envelope and sliding it over to Owen. He has a few envelopes in there—at quick glance, I count six.

“Full ride. DePaul. And we won’t redshirt you. You might not start…at first. But, I think you’ll be a pivotal part of the rotation within the first season. By your sophomore year, you’ll be the reason people show up to watch the game,” Mr. Mathison says.

Owen’s eyes are forward on the envelope, and his mother’s mouth is open wide. “I heard you’re thinking of going to Iowa,” Mr. Mathison continues, and my heartbeat picks up, my eyes looking to Mr. Chessman’s. He won’t look back at me; he’s working too hard to stay in character. “Iowa, they won’t treat you right. You’ll redshirt, and you won’t succeed on their court. They don’t play your kind of game. We do.”

Holy shit, he thinks Owen’s going to college in Iowa. My mouth hurts from the pressure of not laughing. I know if I let it slip, I wouldn’t be able to stop. It would be that maniacal kind of laugh, the type filled with nerves and wheezing hiccups and such. And I think it would start a chain—one that moves to Mr. Chessman next, and then Owen. Shannon is looking at everyone around the table, her eyes in shock, not following anything that’s happening, but knowing enough to realize that she should play along with this charade as well.