Davey looked up. He had never heard the Principal talk about his leg. He nodded, and suddenly, the tears he had held back finally fell. Not from sadness, but from relief. From being understood.
“Yes, sir,” Davey choked out. “It hurts a lot.”
Henderson put a heavy, warm hand on Davey’s shoulder.
“I know, son. I know.”
He squeezed Davey’s shoulder. “Pain builds character, Davey. You get up every morning and you face a battle those boys couldn’t last five minutes in. You have more character in your little finger than those three have in their whole bodies.”
Davey wiped his eyes. “Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me,” Henderson grunted. “Just doing my job.”
He looked toward the Parent Pick-up zone. “Your mother isn’t here yet?”
“She’s late sometimes. She works double shifts,” Davey said.
“Come on,” Henderson said, gesturing toward the staff parking lot. “I’ve got the heated seats in my car. I’ll wait with you until she gets here.”
“Here,” Henderson said. He reached out and took Davey’s heavy, muddy backpack.
“Sir, you don’t have to…”
“I know I don’t have to,” Henderson said. He slung the backpack over his own shoulder, ignoring the mud staining his white shirt. “I want to.”
The Principal turned and began to walk. Click. Clack.
Davey followed him. Click. Drag.
They walked side by side, two soldiers with different battles, sharing the same slow, painful rhythm.
As they walked, Henderson looked down at Davey.
“So,” the Principal said. “I hear you know a thing or two about the Civil War. Tell me… what did you think of General Grant’s strategy at Vicksburg?”
Davey smiled. It was a real smile. He adjusted his crutches and began to talk. And for the first time all day, he didn’t feel cold at all.
