“I never thought he’d ever die,” Mike says. “I mean…”
“I know what you mean.” Jacob tries to picture how he’d feel if his mom called and said her father was gone. Gone. Jacob feels tears prick his eyes at the thought so he blinks them away. He thinks back to this past June, when he last saw his grandparents. He remembers his grandpa showing him the new mare he bought, already with foal. He remembers Pop’s strong hands, tanned, lined, ancient. He can’t imagine those hands stiff and cold and gray. He doesn’t wantto imagine it. So he won’t.
And he’s tired of talking about it now, too. “What time is your mom coming to get you?”
“In the morning,” Mike whispers. “Before class.”
“Before mass?” Jacob asks.