“Yeah,” Bobby said.“It is.It’s pretty good, right?I didn’t even know she liked to paint.”

He turned his attention back to the table, and he was busy trying to find a place for the painting when his dad came back.Mr.Mai was carrying something in his hand.He knelt next to Bobby, and Bobby shifted automatically, moving to give his dad space as he turned back to the box.

Mr.Mai held out the small item he’d brought with him, and Bobby stopped.

It was an old iPod.Like,oldold.It was scratched.The screen had a crack in it.The symbols were wearing off from use.

And I saw, in my mind, Bobby lying in bed, or stretched out on the floor, or folding laundry.Always with his earbuds in.Always with his music.

Bobby looked at the iPod for a long time.Then he took it from his dad and started to set it on the table.

Mr.Mai stopped him.It was the first time I’d seen them touch: Mr.Mai’s weathered hands caught Bobby’s, and he brought Bobby’s hands back down, away from the table.And then, trembling, Mr.Mai folded Bobby’s fingers around the iPod and squeezed Bobby’s hands in his own.