The sun is higher in the sky now. It’s warming up. If Fitz didn’t have a gun stuck in his waistband, he’d think about pulling off his sweatshirt. His father has picked up his bottle of water, and they’ve each been sipping, listening to the growl and whine of construction, thinking their own thoughts. “She says you were young and foolish,” Fitz says at last. “Young and foolish. Like it was the name of a soap opera.” “The Young and the Foolish.” “Were you?” “Oh yes,” his father says. “I was. I’ll speak for myself. I had a starring role in that show.” Fitz wants more but isn’t quite sure how to draw it out. He knows that stories can be cautious animals, like chipmunks or rabbits, and Fitz doesn’t want to scare this one away. He decides just to hold still, wait. “It’s none of my business, I know,” his father says. “I have no right to ask. But I wonder if you have a girl. You don’t have to answer.” Fitz thinks about Nora. He actually had a conversation with her after school the day before.
