“Yes,” Sheldon said. “Let’s.”

But Sheldon just walked to his room, carrying the damp rocket like a relic. And George smiled—a quiet, tired, real smile—because for one day, the boy had lived in the in-between. And that was enough.

He said, “Thank you.”

For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Sheldon climbed onto the bed beside his father—not for warmth, he would later insist, but because the mattress had a more stable gravitational center. George didn’t call him out. He just pulled the thin blanket over both of them.

The launch was supposed to be a gift: a father-son trip to see a real space shuttle lift off. But the announcement came over the crackling car radio: scrubbed due to weather.

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