Inside the box was the golden cake topper.
Twisted. Dry. Clean carefully.
Matteo held it as if it were something fragile and sacred.
"I took him out of the pool after everyone else had left," she told me. "I felt guilty leaving him there."
Then he handed me the envelope.
Inside were several folded sheets of paper, filled with his shaky handwriting and colorful drawings. The first read: "I didn't want to throw the cake, but my dad told me that if I did, he'd take me to the Azteca Stadium and you'd laugh because it was a joke, just like on TV."
My throat closed up.
