He taps his fingers lightly together, pad to pad—it’s an echo of how Kevin laces and twists his twiggy fingers together, but it’s both stronger and softer. Doc Matapang is a big man, but he moves so delicately, like he’s never hurt anyone in his life, and never could. “Come Sunday,” he says. “Don’t stop coming.” That’s a nice thing for him to say, but it would be better if Kevin said it. It would be better if Kevin said it, but Kevin is gone.
