“Because reaching the other side is the difficult part, Soldier.”

Miles frowned.

“Anyone can start moving,” Arthur continued. “Very few pieces survive the whole journey. That’s part of the game—figuring out which ones are worth protecting long enough to get there.”

Miles stared at the pawn.

Then muttered,

“Still hate when you call me Soldier.”

Arthur moved his bishop.

“Get to the other side, Soldier.”

Miles tried very hard not to smile.

He failed.

—

Not long afterward, the pawn ritual began.

I didn’t understand it at first.

Miles came home one evening furious.

“Artie stole another one.”

I looked up from cooking dinner.

“He stole your chess piece?”

“Not stole stole.”

He said this as though I were an idiot.

“Not like a robber.”

“Glad we clarified that.”

“He kept it.”

“What?”

“My pawn.”

“Why?”

“The one that reached the other side. I promoted it, and then Artie put the old pawn in his pocket.”

I turned toward him.

“Why?”

“He said it was evidence.”

“Evidence of what?”

Miles crossed his arms.

“That I’m teachable.”

I laughed so hard I had to sit down.

Miles was offended enough that he barely spoke to me during dinner.

The following afternoon, I walked over to Arthur.

“So we’re stealing chess pieces from seven-year-olds now?”

Arthur put one hand dramatically over his heart.

“Maisy, I am preserving history.”

“Of course you are.”

“He’s being annoying!” Miles yelled from the water fountain.

“That too,” Arthur admitted.

I returned to my bench.

I assumed it was just their joke.

A silly ritual between an old man and a little boy.

It took me months to understand that every one of those pawns represented something.

Arthur was keeping evidence of every time Miles had successfully taken something small and seemingly insignificant across an entire difficult board and turned it into something stronger.

And I was sitting ten feet away the entire time.

There are some things you can miss even when they’re happening ten feet in front of you.

—

Near the park entrance was a small coffee kiosk.

One afternoon, Miles came running back with two white sugar packets.

He slapped them onto the chess table.

“These are for you.”

Arthur looked down.

“For what?”

“Your coffee.”

“I know what sugar is, Soldier.”

Miles sighed.

“Old people like sweet coffee, Artie. Everyone knows that.”

I nearly choked.

“Miles!”

“What? They do.”

Arthur stared at those two packets for a second.

Then he picked them up very carefully.

“Thank you, Soldier.”

But he never poured them into his coffee.

I noticed.

Then forgot about it.

Later, I would understand that I shouldn’t have.

Arthur eventually began missing days.

At first, only occasionally.

A Tuesday.

Then a Friday a couple of weeks later.