drawn two small figures sitting in a movie theater.
One had curly hair covered in little dots.
“Is that me?” I asked.
“I think so.”
“Are those dots popcorn?”
Owen examined it.
“Definitely popcorn.”
He put the picture on our refrigerator beside the first one.
Sometimes, late at night, Owen talks about the woman who saw him in that parking lot when he was nine.
For years, he hated her for looking away.
Now he sees it differently.
“Maybe she was scared,” he told me recently.
“Maybe she thought getting
