Moonshot

prologue

Pittsburgh

When my foot first stepped up, high and hesitantly, onto a team bus, I was seven. I liked My Little Ponies and Hanson. A brand-new coloring book was tucked under my skinny arm, a Lisa Frank backpack high on my back, full of my Most Important Items.

He stood at the top of the steps, one hand on the rail, the other on his hip. His jeans were stiff and dark, the bright yellow T-shirt tucked into the top of them. I raised my eyes from the neck of the shirt, past his scruffy jaw, his mouth, and landed on eyes that I had rarely seen.

“Hi Tyler.” His mouth lifted in a smile, and I tried to match the gesture.

“Hi Daddy.”

His smile broke a little, his mouth tightening, and he took the steps between us quickly, awkwardly sticking out a hand. “Let me take your backpack,” he said, his voice gruff.

I moved obedient arms through the straps, and carefully lifted one pink plastic shoe up another dirty step, then a second, depending heavily on his hand, my small palm gripping it tightly, our progression up the short flight an awkward dance of strangers.

When I got to the top, I stopped, a long aisle stretching before me, a chorus of male faces, strangers’ faces, staring at me, an uncomfortable hush settling over the big bus.

“Go ahead, Tyler. Find us a seat.” My father pushed gently on my back, and I took my first step down that aisle.

It was April of 2001, and six days after Mom died.