“I’ve got one more meeting, tomorrow morning. It’s in Elgin, and I’ll swing back by your school on my way out. I’d love to shake your hand and make it official, but you look these papers over, let me know what you think,” he says. As Mathison leaves, he shakes everyone’s hands, and Mr. Chessman walks him back outside, both of their cars parked in the road behind Owen’s truck.

“What was that all about?” Owen’s mom finally says, her voice coming out wavering, a sort of whisper, nervous laughter blending with her words. “That man is offering to give you a scholarship? So you can play basketball? Honey…”

“He’s not the only one making offers,” Mr. Chessman says, closing the front door behind him, holding his hands together and rubbing them as if to say jackpot. He’s grinning widely, his feet practically skipping as he joins us at the table. “Can you believe he bought the Iowa thing though?”

We all look at him when he says it.

“Look, I never lied. Someone had to call him to report your grades, send in transcripts. I volunteered, and all I said was that I thought he should know Owen was thinking of going to Iowa. Not a lie,” he smirks. I slap his shoulder, then apologize quickly, realizing he’s my teacher and I’ve just punched him in the arm.

“Why did you do that?” Owen asks. His eyes are still on the envelope, and he doesn’t seem to be sharing the same thrill of opportunity the rest of us are. “Did you put him up to this?” Owen turns to me, and suddenly I can’t breathe.

“O…” I start, not sure how I’m going to defend myself, but desperate for the right words, the ones that will make him understand, and say yes to this chance.

“It wasn’t her. I did this. The school knows you’re moving, and I merely asked Kensi if everything was all right. She was honest and said she was worried about you. That’s all,” Mr. Chessman says. The way he covers for me, the ease with which he spins the story—he’s practiced this, thought through everything. He cares…he cares about Owen, and he cares about Owen’s mom. His eyes never stay on her long, but they search her out every other minute. A constant system of checks and balances to make sure she’s there, in her chair, listening, engaged, happy, safe.

Owen sighs heavily, leaning back in his chair, his hands holding the edge of the table, his thumbs pinning the envelope down. He slides his palms flat toward it, then he picks it up and unfolds the top. He tilts it sideways, sliding out brochures and booklets and a letter, signed by Lon Mathison and another name.

“Owen, if this man is offering you a chance to go to college…you have to take it,” his mother says, sliding one of the brochures closer, her fingers running over the glossy photos. There’s a certain sense of longing in the way she looks at them.

His head shaking, Owen drops the letter from his hands, then leans forward, rubbing his hands over his eyes before pulling them down over his mouth. He looks to me next, his face every bit of lost and unsure. His eyes stay on mine; they’re asking me a question. He’s torn by duty. And he doesn’t know what to do. His mom and Mr. Chessman are exchanging brochures, each pointing out things for the other to look at—both excited about this opportunity. All Owen sees is how he’ll be abandoning his mom, his family, when they need him most.

“How are we going to afford Grampa? You know how much money I’m going to make in Iowa, Mom. That paycheck—it’s guaranteed. And it will save us. What happens with Andrew? Are you going to send him down to Iowa alone? Or does he stay here, where he has to live under Dad’s shadow? And I’m sorry I’m bringing it up, Mom, but you know it’s there. Iowa is a chance for him to get away from all those things that—” Owen stops suddenly, swallowing as his eyes close.

“Those things that you think killed James,” she finishes for him. Owen’s mother’s voice is soft, her heart broken for both the son she lost and the one who feels responsible for his death. “You can’t spend your life protecting Andrew, Owen. And you deserve things too. Good things. And we’ll find a way to make it work.”

“I don’t know,” Owen says, pulling his hat from his head, laying it on the table over the documents that are now overwhelming him, his hands rubbing his head. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t…” His voice dissipates, until it’s nothing.

Owen stands and stares at me, then turns to his mom. He reaches forward again, grabbing the letter, carrying it with him as he leaves the room. He pauses at the bottom of the stairs, looking at us all. “Let me think about it, okay? And I will…I promise, tonight.”