“Let’s find out.”
They spread materials across the sitting-room floor.
Boxes.
Tape.
A blanket.
The old lantern.
The tin traveler became a lighthouse keeper, then an engineer, then apparently the captain of a ship that required very little resemblance to actual ships.
Darian was assigned the role of a man who kept going in the wrong direction.
Max found that extremely funny.
I watched from the doorway.
There was no attempt to reproduce the school play.
No demand to recover the missed lines.
The costume belonged to the child again.
He could alter it.
Outgrow it.
Use it badly.
Leave it in a heap.
His father could join the next story without pretending he had been present for the first.
At one point, Max lifted the lantern.
“Wait there.”
Darian stopped.
Then the boy moved a cardboard wall.
“Now come.”
His father followed.
That was all.
A child giving a clear invitation.
A father hearing it from him.
And this time, nobody stood between the invitation and the man it was meant for.
