Way up.

And when, a few seconds later, a new wad of paper showed up in my lap, I knew he’d tossed it there, because I’d seen him do that too.

Feeling like I couldn’t breathe, I opened the new note. On it, he’d written the words:

That was an easy one. In fact, it was practically a relief to write:

Because that was really how I felt.

Still, the last thing I expected was a note back from David saying how he really felt.

But that is exactly what I got.

And if I had ever been happy before—if there had ever been anything, anything at all that had ever made it feel as if joy was just bubbling up inside of me—that was nothing compared to how I felt when I opened the next folded slip of paper he threw into my lap, and saw that on it he had drawn a heart.

That was all. Just a tiny little heart.

For which there was only one explanation. I mean, really. And that was that David loved me. He loved me.

He loved me.

He loved me.

A week later, they had the award ceremony. The one where I got my presidential medal. You know, for valour and all of that.