"I think about that sentence," Richard said. "I would cut off a finger to unsay it."
Ethan sat on the opposite chair. "You can't unsay it. You can make it outdated. That's better than magic, because it takes work."
Richard looked at him. "Who taught you to talk like that?"
"Mom. Helena. Humiliation. You, sometimes, when you stop being a brochure."
Richard shook his head, smiling despite himself. "Twelve years old."
"Going on the truth," Ethan said, quoting Richard's own city sentence back to him, and Richard put a hand over his eyes for a moment, undone by being known.
The competition Saturday came with snow dusting the morning. Ethan wore the blazer again, hoodie underneath, new shoes that no longer needed breaking in. Sophia competed in a different age bracket earlier and found him afterward with a silver ribbon and a fierce hug.