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            “They were really cute,” Marci told Mrs. Brand.

            “He could drum, and his sister could sing,” Mason said. “They tore through that train song.”

            “They did. They were good.”

            “But kids,” Craig said. “That’s the sympathy vote.”

            “We were lucky to get third place,” Mason said.

            “This year,” Frank said. “Where’s that trophy?”

            “Larry’s got it,” Marci said. “They’re still up at the cemetery.”

            “That’ll be windy enough.”

            “Not for those two,” Marci said. “They’re on a mission.”

            “I wish I was up there with them putting that trophy on Jimmy’s grave.” His phrase stopped the conversation. Jimmy was dead. Mason held up his bottle. “To Jimmy Brand, our friend.” One by one each of the glasses touched every glass. Marci said his name, Jimmy, and she heard it whispered throughout the room. It was quiet in the little house; they could only hear the muffled hauling of the storm. Marci saw Mr. Brand’s face and put her arms around the older man.

            He took the embrace and patted her back and whispered to her, “I’m good.”

            Frank said, “You want to get that boat back in the garage, Mr. Brand?”

            “Snow won’t hurt that boat,” Edgar Brand said. “I wonder, Frank, if you could just haul it away?”

            “Done,” Frank said. “This week. I’ll see to it, snow or no. It is not a problem.” He shook Mr. Brand’s hand.

            “Jimmy Brand,” Mason said again quietly, an echo. Kathleen took his arm. “He taught me the guitar, made me want to learn it that year.”