"Taken your clothes to the tailor?" I ask, feeling my brow arch. I try to remind myself that he's only a ten-year-old. And ten-year-olds tend to be difficult at that stage of life, developing, wanting to run on ahead, but ultimately finding themselves ill-equipped for adulthood. I wasn't an adult at ten, in spite of all that had happened. No, I was a reticent and overly taciturn child, and without Alfred's guidance, I wouldn't be half of what I am today.

But, I also remind myself, he isn't only a ten-year-old. He's my son.

"I admit, I didn't foresee you pedaling at breakneck speed in those pants."