"Your truck's always here."
Wyn looked at him, and at the bag. He looked like a man who had not slept well even though he had slept all day.
"She told you," he said.
"Yeah."
Wyn stood there with his hand on the door for a long moment. Then he opened it the rest of the way and stepped back.
The apartment was one room with a kitchen along one wall and a bed along the other and a window that looked out over the alley at the back of a tire shop. It was very clean. There was a card table with two folding chairs, and a television on a milk crate, and on the wall over the bed, in a cheap black frame, there was a team photo: sixteen boys in navy-and-gold Delta Valley jerseys and a short woman with dark hair standing at the end of the back row. The woman was Coach Pennock, younger, with more hair and no limp that you could see in a photograph. In the middle of the front row, sitting cross-legged with a ball in his lap, was a seventeen-year-old Wyn, grinning at the camera with all his teeth.
"I didn't know if you'd still have that," Tavo said.
"I have it." Wyn took the bag from him and set it on the card table and looked into it. "What is this?"
"Carnitas. She said you're too skinny."
Wyn made a small sound that might have been a laugh. He sat down at the card table. He did not open the foil. He sat with his elbows on his knees and his hands hanging between them and looked at the floor.
"I didn't come this morning," he said.
"I noticed."
"I knew she'd know them. The second you said Pennock, I knew. I could have told you to wear something else. I could have told you to borrow a pair. I didn't." He rubbed his face with both hands. "I think I wanted her to see them. I don't know. I think I wanted somebody to carry them back out there so I didn't have to. And then this morning I sat in the truck at the Sorensen lot with the engine running for forty-five minutes and I couldn't drive to the park, because I knew you'd ask, and I didn't know what I'd say."