He picked up the green card.
“I like specific words.”
Then the yellow.
“They make problems the correct size.”
Then the red.
“A correct-size problem is easier to survive.”
No one moved.
I was crying now.
I didn’t care.
Mason reached beneath the table and removed a binder.
“This is version twelve.”
Diane whispered, “Oh my God.”
Hannah grabbed my hand.
This time I let her.
Mason held up the binder.
On the cover were two words.
SAME TABLE.
“What is that?” I whispered.
Hannah squeezed my fingers.
“Just watch.”
Mason opened it.
“When I was thirteen, Diane said other restaurants wanted our cards.”
Our cards.
Not his.
Ours.
“So we sent files.”
He turned a page.
“Then a library wanted them.”
Another page.
“Then schools.”
Another.
“Then hospitals.”
My mouth fell open.
Mason continued.
“Some places used them incorrectly, so we wrote instructions.”
Diane raised her hand.
“Mason wrote instructions.”
