My husband refused to walk my 17-year-old daughter, his stepdaughter for nine years, at her high school senior night. “That’s something a real father should do,” he told her. But when her name was announced Thursday evening, her 79-year-old grandfather appeared with his walking cane and proudly accompanied her onto the court.

The gym smelled like popcorn and floor wax. And that hot electrical smell the old scoreboard makes when it’s been on for an hour.

The booster club had hung maroon and gold streamers along every railing.

Each of the six seniors had a big poster on an easel by the scorer’s table. Her number. Her picture.

Kaylee’s showed her in midair at a home game last fall. Her braid flying out behind her like a rope.

On the scorer’s table was a bucket of red roses from the flower shop on Main Street.

Each senior carries one out and hands it to whoever walks her. That’s how it’s been done here as long as anybody can remember.

Travis looked at those roses. Then he looked away.