“He argued with me once about whether your apple pie had cinnamon or nutmeg.”
Her hand rose to her mouth.
“Nutmeg.”
“I told him cinnamon.”
For the first time, Colby’s mother laughed.
A tiny, broken laugh.
“Then he remembered correctly.”
Travis began crying.
“I should have gotten him out.”
She stepped closer.
“You were a boy trapped there too.”
“I survived.”
“Yes.”
Her voice shook.
“So survive this part too.”
At Corbin’s funeral, his father placed a hand on Travis’s shoulder.
“He fought?”
“Every day.”
“Was he afraid?”
“Yes.”
The father nodded.
“Good.”
Travis looked confused.
“He was always afraid of being afraid.”
Then the older man stared toward his son’s grave.
“Tell me he didn’t stop being himself.”
Travis answered immediately.
“He never did.”
That mattered.
