He picked up the first pawn and turned it upside down.

A tiny blue dot was marked underneath.

“Mom.”

“Yes?”

He picked up another.

A red dot.

Another.

Green.

His voice became a whisper.

“These are mine.”

I knelt beside him.

“What do you mean?”

“These are my Soldiers.”

He looked at me with wet, confused eyes.

“The ones I promoted. Artie marked every one.”

He looked at the row.

“He kept all of them.”

And finally I understood.

Seven pawns.

Seven journeys.

Seven times my quiet, lonely little boy had taken something weak across a difficult distance and transformed it.

Arthur had kept every one.

But there was still another pawn.

One sitting alone in the middle of the unfinished board.

Miles lifted it.

Underneath was another folded note.

He opened it.

Arthur had written:

*You finished the first part.*

*Now come finish the game.*

*The address is on the back.*

*They’re expecting you.*

*—Artie*

On the other side was the address of an assisted-living facility about fifteen minutes away.

Miles looked at me.

“He moved?”

“I think so.”

“Without telling me?”

The hurt in his voice hit me harder than anything else.

Because I knew what those words really meant.

People leave.

His father had disappeared without warning.

Now Arthur had done something that felt frighteningly similar.

Miles quickly gathered the seven pawns and placed them in his chess box.

He put the final pawn carefully inside his pocket.

“Mom…”

I grabbed my keys.

“Get in the car.”

—

Arthur was sitting near a window when we found him.

The room smelled of clean sheets and disinfectant.

A thin oxygen tube rested beneath his nose.

He looked smaller than he had at the park.

Much smaller.

Miles marched straight toward him.

Arthur’s entire face brightened.

“Soldier!”

“I hate when you call me that!”

“I know.”

Arthur smiled weakly.

“I know you do.”

“You left.”

The smile faded.

“Yes.”

“You didn’t finish, Artie.”

Miles dropped the chess box onto the small table.

A bishop rolled onto the floor.

Arthur instinctively leaned down.

Miles grabbed it first.

“Don’t. You’re old.”

Arthur stared at him.

Then laughed softly.

“I’m deeply moved by your concern, Soldier.”

“Mom drove.”

As though that explained everything.

Arthur looked at me.

The humor disappeared.

“I’m sorry.”

“For leaving?”

I sat down.

“For making a seven-year-old carry my goodbye.”