It came in a staggering flash—and it was so tragically simple, it astonished her that she hadn't grasped it before now. With this knowledge came an uneasy mingling of sorrow and relief. . . but for the first time in ages Leona Gardner knew exactly what she must do. An odd serenity suffused her. She lit a fresh Tareyton, chugged some more Jack, then flipped on the reel-to-reel. There was no hurry now. None at all. Sammy's final report card lay face down on the coffee table in front of her, and Leona reached out and flipped it open. He'd passed the tenth grade with flying colors, and despite herself Leona felt a faint glow of pride for the kid. He'd had to work hard at it, too, burning the midnight oil most nights. Poor Sammy, he was most definitely not a talented boy. He couldn't draw, couldn't use a hammer without blackening a thumbnail, couldn't even put out the garbage without busting the bag. The only thing he could do was play hockey, and Leona could see little of value in that. In spite of his gangly clumsiness, on skates the kid underwent a mysterious transformation, a change so striking that even Leona had to acknowledge it.
