“God, I just wanted a father for Christmas,” she prayed, unaware that a reserved CEO was listening.

Late that night, Caleb fell asleep. He was nine now. He'd grown 3 in, and he finally had a coat that was his own, a red one with a hood. But under it, he still wore the old flannel shirt. The sleeves rolled twice now instead of four times. He fell asleep sitting up, his head dropping slowly onto his grandfather's shoulder. Walt didn't move. He sat very still, the way you sit when a bird lands near you. Then he reached over slowly and laid two fingers on the inside of his grandson's wrist. He lifted his eyes to the clock on the wall. His lips moved. When the minute ended, he started to laugh quietly, his shoulders shaking so carefully that the boy didn't wake.

"What's so funny?" Martin asked. "92," Walt whispered. "Kid's heart runs fast even when he's asleep. Always in a hurry." He shook his head. "First time in my life I ever counted somebody else's."

Caleb woke an hour later. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and checked his grandfather's face, the old reflex. Then, seeing that everything was fine, he did something new. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small roll of dollar bills held with a rubber band. He had earned them shining boots at the fire station in Cheyenne on weekends. A dollar a pair. The firefighters paid two if he did the laces. He walked to the counter by himself. "Two coffees, please," he told Mavis. "One black and one with cream." "Who are these for, hun?" "One's for Uncle Ray, one's for Mr. Gray." He paid with exact change. He counted it out on the counter, bill by bill, then pushed it across. Mavis took it, and she did not refuse it because she understood the difference between a gift and a payment, and she knew which one this boy needed to make.

He carried the coffees back very level, the way you carry something you can't afford to spill. He gave the first one to Ray. Then he stood in front of Martin and held out the second. Martin looked at it. In his own hands he had already been holding a cup. And beside him on the bench sat another one, untouched, cooling. It was an old habit. He still hadn't broken it. "This one's not for your mom," Caleb said. "It's for you."

For a moment, Martin couldn't take it because his hands weren't steady. They had always been steady. They weren't steady now. Then he took it. Caleb reached into his pocket again and pulled out something small, a dime, worn, smooth, almost gray. The date said 1964. "Grandpa gave me this. He said, 'A Hollis always keeps a dime, so he's never broke. But you don't have one.'" He held it out. Martin looked at Walt. Walt shrugged as if it were none of his business, though his eyes said otherwise.

Martin took the dime. He opened his wallet, reached behind all the cards, and pulled out the laminated bus pass with Linda Gray's photo on it. He laid the dime right on top of it and slid them both back in together. "There," he said, "Now I'm never broke."

There was still one thing Martin couldn't do. Every month, his volunteer route passed within a few miles of Laramie. Twice that year, he had pulled into the parking lot of the old bus station there, turned off the engine, and sat with his hands on the wheel. Both times, he had driven away without going inside. Maybe next year, maybe the year after. Some doors take longer than others. But that night in Cheyenne, with the wind rattling the glass doors like someone asking to be led in, Martin Gray did something he had not done in 30 years.