That evening, we took Tony Gorzola back to the Boston Home for Boys at precisely six o’clock.
The visit was at an end.
Standing in the parking lot, holding his hand and shivering as Jackson got Tony’s small suitcase out of the trunk, I was in a gosh darn funk. I didn’t want him to go back to this place and whatever sort of life waited inside. Something in his solemn, sad eyes said he might agree with this sentiment, but he said nothing, gave no indication of his feelings.
Heather Duport met us in the foyer.
“How was your visit?’ she asked, immediately taking Tony in hand as if to make sure we didn’t accidentally run off with him.
“He’s great,” I said. “We had a great time. We’d like to do it again.”
“We sure would,” Jackson added.
“Really? I’m glad to hear that.”
“He’s the one we’v
