I looked at him. He was looking at me now, not the picture. His face was very still. Nine-year-olds' faces are never still; they're like weather. His was like a pond.
"Yes," I said.
"Did you ever see him again?"
"No."
"Did you want to?"
"Casey," I said, and it was the first time I'd said his name, "what's all this? Why do you want to know about that?"
He went red again, from the neck up, the way he had the first day. He looked down at the counter. "I just like the picture," he said. "He looks happy."
"He was a happy baby," I said, "once he got going." And then, because I could not stand there any longer, I picked up his plate and went into the kitchen and stood next to the dish machine with the plate in my hands while the steam came out of it, until Stosh said, "Dodie," gently, like you'd say it to a horse, and I went back out.
At four-ten he put on his bookbag. Both straps. I took two quarters out of my apron and held them out to him, and he looked at them.
"For the bus," I said. "So you don't spend your antique."
"I have a pass."