“So, how was your weekend?” Mr. Crenshaw jumped two of Danny’s checkers with his only king.

“Yesterday, I cleaned the garage and hung out with Janey and Cupcake at the tree fort. Saturday, I watched practice. Bored out of my mind.”

Mr. C tapped the board to remind Danny it was his move. “That leaves Friday night.”

Danny shrugged and began a retreat with one of his two kings.

“That means something happened.” Mr. C made a move to cut off Danny’s retreat.

Danny sighed. “Here we go.”

“Here we go what? Am I going to beat you?” Mr. C pointed at the board.

“No. You. Inside my head.” Danny looked him in the eyes and realized for the first time what a deep blue they were.

Mr. C smiled. “That’s my job. So, what happened?”

Danny looked at his hands. “I lost it. Bonkers.”

“Bonkers how? Can you tell me what you did?”

Danny moved a checker to protect his king. “It wasn’t like usual, me shouting or hitting something. It was like . . . inside. I got sick. My guts twisted. I ran to the bathroom. Puked everywhere. I don’t know why. I was just watching the game. We scored and I puked.”

Mr. C moved, keeping the pressure on Danny’s king. “Do you remember what you were thinking? When they scored?”

Danny reached for a piece, then paused. “About how I’d be out there one day. That Jericho football is this thing that’s bigger than . . . I don’t know, bigger than life.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Well, you’ve got the present, and I’m the future, and the past. It’s, like, eternal, right?”

Mr. C’s voice got soft. “Tell me about the past. What does Jericho football in the past make you think of?”

Danny moved his king into the open. He kept his finger on the piece for several moments. He knew this time was coming. It was like a long line for a water slide. It took so long it seemed you’d never get there. Then, there you were, in the tube. Then you let go. It was dark and you didn’t know how it would end, but it was too late to go back.

“Tell me,” Mr. C said gently. “What?”

Finally, Danny took his finger off the king and looked up at Mr. Crenshaw with tears flooding his eyes. His face twisted and his voice broke. “My dad.”

“Yes,” Mr. Crenshaw said, nodding the way you’d greet a long-awaited guest, “your dad.”

A primal howl boiled up from Danny’s center. He tilted his head toward the ceiling and let it out, sobbing and moaning in complete anguish. “I hate him! I hate him!”

Danny pushed back his chair and stood up. “Mr. C, why did he do it? Why?”

Mr. C stood up and circled the table, still speaking softly. “Do what, Danny? What did he do?”

“He died! He died, and I killed him . . .” Danny threw his arms around the counselor and sobbed into his shoulder. “I killed him. He was training me. He wanted me to be ready for the big game. He wanted me to have a great season and he took me running and if he hadn’t done that, he wouldn’t be . . . dead.”

“Oh, Danny.” Mr. Crenshaw hugged him. “You didn’t kill him . . .”

“I did. I did.”

“No, Danny. No.”

“He . . .” Danny sobbed. “He just fell and I watched and I couldn’t do anything. I just stood there!”

“There was nothing to do, Danny. Your dad was gone. It’s not your fault. He loved you and he wanted to help you, but it wasn’t your fault. You have to believe me.” Mr. C had Danny in a vise grip.

Danny cried until he ran out of tears. Mr. C got him a box of tissues. He blew his nose and sat back down. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

Danny pointed at the stack of used Kleenex.

“It’s good to cry, Danny. You kept that in for a long time. Too long.”

“What do you mean?” Danny kept his eyes on the board.

“Did you cry at your dad’s funeral?”

“No!” All he remembered were the people, all the people, and his mom in a black dress. He looked up so Mr. C would know it was the truth.

“Did you cry another time? Late at night? Before you went to sleep? Taking a walk in the woods?” Mr. C looked at him doubtfully.

Danny let loose a tattered sigh. “I guess not.”

“That’s why this is good. You needed it. You might need more of it. Don’t be upset if you find yourself crying. It’s normal. It’s how we heal.” Mr. C spoke with such confidence and authority that Danny believed him, and it made him feel much better.

Danny sniffed and pointed at the board. “It’s your move.”

“Oh. Right.” Mr. C jumped the king Danny had had his finger on for so long and smiled weakly. “Sorry. You can’t win them all.”

“No.” Danny kept his smile in check. “You can’t.”