The first meeting was arranged with professional support because Elliot needed to be protected from the chaos surrounding the adults.
I waited in the hallway.
Dawson had spent the morning looking through photographs.
He wanted to bring one.
Not of Elliot's memorial.
Not of the tiny urn.
A photograph of himself as a little boy.
He was about four.
Sitting on his father's shoulders.
Laughing.
When the door finally opened, a woman invited him inside.
I watched him straighten his jacket.
His hands were shaking.
Then he disappeared into the room.
I sat down.
For nearly forty minutes, I waited.
I imagined a hundred different conversations.
A child who might be frightened.
A father who might cry too much.
The painful awkwardness of two people connected by blood but separated by a lie.
Then the door opened.
Dawson stepped into the hallway.
His eyes were red.
But he was smiling.
