“Yeah,” Alan said.
“I don’t think the little ones really remember him—he’s more like a bad dream to them. But he was real, wasn’t he?”
“Yeah,” Alan said. “But he’s gone now.”
“Was it right?”
“What do you mean?” Alan said. He felt a sear of anger arc along his spine.
“It’s nothing,” Billy said, mumbling into his tray.
“What do you mean, Brad?” Alan said. “What else should we have done? How can you have any doubts?”
“I don’t,” Brad said. “It’s okay.”
Alan looked down at his hands, which appeared to belong to someone else: white lumps of dough clenched into hard fists, knuckles white. He made himself unclench them. “No, it’s not okay. Tell me about this. You remember what he was like. What he… did.”
“I remember it,” Bryan said. “Of course I remember it.” He was staring through the table now, the look he got when he was contemplating a future the rest of them couldn’t see. “But.”