People were on their feet. Cheering. Crying. Hugging strangers. An old man in the bleachers threw his cap in the air. The kids in Hornets jackets started chanting, “HAR- LAN! HAR-LAN!” like it was a football game.

Dad stood beside me with tears running down his face, shaking hands with men he hadn't seen in years.

At the back, Kristen was holding Noah up so he could see, and she was crying too.

In the front row, Brett Dawson hadn't moved.

He was just sitting there, staring at me. Tiffany had her hand over her mouth. Dale looked like someone had hit him with a two-by-four.

When the noise finally died down, Brett stood up slowly.

“Wyatt,” he said. His face was bright red. “Man. I… the birdhouses. The truck. The sign.” “It's okay, Brett.”

“I told everybody it was a developer from Chicago,” he said. “With robots.”

The people around him started laughing.

“No robots,” I said. “Just people.”

Brett laughed too. An embarrassed, honest laugh.

“You could have told us,” he said. “At the bar.”

“I could have,” I said. “But I wanted to tell my dad first.”