They found a parking spot at the cafeteria near his dorm because the other spots were full and check-in was here.
Inside, the floor was new and the tables were clean. A girl in a campus T-shirt wiped a counter and changed the music to something light. There were balloons tied to a cardboard sign that said Welcome, and under it in smaller letters, Parent HQ.
They set their cups down. The father tested the lid. The mother slid a paper napkin under hers as if the cup might leave a mark on a table like this.
“You’re sure you don’t want anything to eat before we leave,” she said.
“I’m fine,” the boy said.
“It’s a long walk to the dorms,” the father said.
“I’ll be fine,” the boy said. He smiled, a small thing, and looked out through the glass at the cars. “There are a lot of people here.”
“They said the first day would be the busiest,” the mother said. “If you want we can stay overnight and bring you back in the morning.”
“No, it's fine,” the boy said.
The father took off his cap and set it next to the cup. He rested his hands around the coffee and kept them there. On the far wall a student volunteer taped a paper arrow over an old arrow and made it point in the same direction.
“They think it’s easier the second time,” the mother said, not looking at either of them.
“Who does,” the boy said.
“People,” she said. “Church people. Your aunt. Everyone.”
The father sipped his coffee. It was hot and not very strong. He kept his hands around it anyway.
“Do you have the towels,” the mother said.
“They’re in the bin,” the boy said.
“And the phone charger.”
“In the side pocket.”
“You’ll need quarters for laundry,” she said.
“They use an app,” the boy said.
“Right,” she said. “Of course.”
A family came in with a mini fridge strapped to a handcart. The father watched the cart wheel bump the threshold and not catch. The boy watched the fridge.
“You can text when you get your key,” the mother said.
“Do you want him to text you when he finds the bathroom,” the father said. He said it like a joke.
“I’ll remember,” the boy said.
The mother touched the paper napkin and folded one corner over the other. She looked at the folded triangle as if it gave off heat.
“You know where you’re going after we unload,” the father said. “No circles.”
“They give you a map,” the boy said.
“They aren’t good maps,” the father said.
“They’re fine,” the boy said. “I walked it on the website.”
“Right,” the father said. “That helps.”
The girl in the campus shirt came over and asked if they needed anything. The mother said they were fine. The father said they were fine. The boy said he was fine. The girl smiled and walked back to the counter and picked up her phone.
The mother lifted the lid on her cup and put it back down. She could see the steam rising off it. “Do you think your pillow is good enough,” she said.
“I like it,” the boy said.
“You didn’t like it last year.”
“I like it now.”
The father looked at the boy’s hands. They were steady where they held the cup. He thought of all the mornings those hands had moved through the kitchen without thinking, opening the wrong drawer, then the right drawer, then carrying a bowl to the table with cereal in it. It felt strange to sit across from those same hands and not already know what they were about to do.
“Your room looked good when we left,” the mother said.
“Sorry I didn't clean it very good,” the boy said.
“It’s not that,” she said. “It just looked good. I'll miss you.”
He nodded. He turned his cup. He looked like he understood and also like he had a bus to catch that no one else could see.
