We reached my small silver sedan, the hood covered in a thin layer of frost.

“Are you going to call him tonight?” Harold asked.

“I don’t know,” I admitted, staring at the keys in my hand. “If I confront him, he might pull away even more.”

Harold nodded slowly, a cloud of condensation forming with his breath. “Sometimes they need to know you are just there. No pressure. Just present.”

He looked at me with a warmth that eased the chill in the air.

“Would you like to get a coffee tomorrow morning?” Harold asked. “There is a quiet place on the corner of Maple and Main. The Elm Street Café.”

“I would like that, Harold,” I said.

“We can talk, or we can just sit,” he said. “Whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” I said, unlocking my car.

“Around ten?” he suggested.

“Ten is perfect.”

I got into the driver’s seat and watched Harold walk to his own car in the distance.

The drive home was a blur of red taillights and yellow street lamps.

My mind raced with images of David as a little boy, scrape-kneed and running to me for comfort.