I almost didn't go.

But Uncle Ray, who was seventy-four now, told me I should.

“Go and see those kids you paid for,” he said. “And hold your head up.”

So there I was, with my name tag. Most Likely to Change Your Oil.

After Chad's greeting in the lobby, Brooke checked her clipboard.

“Nick, you're at table twenty-four,” she said. “It's at the back, by the kitchen. We call it the overflow table.” She smiled sweetly. “We didn't think you'd actually come.”

The ballroom was beautiful. Chandeliers. White tablecloths. A jazz band in the corner. Table twenty-four was right next to the kitchen doors. Every time a waiter came through, the door swung open and hit the back of the chair.

There were six people already sitting there.

Owen Barnes, who'd been the skinniest kid in school and now worked as a firefighter. Jenny Kowalski, a single mom of three, who told me she'd cried when the tickets went free. Danny Cole, who'd sat alone at lunch for four years and now drove a city bus.

And Lucy Parker.

She looked up from her drink and smiled. The same big laugh.

“Nick Sullivan,” she said. “I was hoping you'd come.”