Escorted to the front row
My father was waiting just inside the vestibule, wringing his hands nervously. He looked pale and sick, wearing the same gray suit from the diner.
He greeted us with a curt nod, avoiding eye contact with the curious onlookers. He turned and gestured for us to follow him down the center aisle.
We walked past rows of stunned faces until he stopped at the very front. He pointed to the reserved pew.