“About this mess he has created?” she said, nodding toward the television.

“No. His regular checkup.”

Her lips were tight as she shook her head. “Well, Tommy has really done it this time.”

He nodded. “That he has. Mom. That he has.”

John buttoned Katie’s navy-blue uniform blazer over her plaid jumper. Here was another thing he liked about Holy Family Elementary: the uniform. No daily contretemps over what to wear, what the other kids were wearing, and why-can’t-I-wear-that-too tantrums. All the girls wore one-piece blue-and-gray plaid jumpers over a white blouse with a neat little Peter Pan collar, blue knee socks, and saddle shoes; all the boys wore blazers of the same plaid with blue slacks. And that was that.

But no rules on hats, so Katie was allowed to wear her favorite: a red beret. After she adjusted it over her hair, they began the predeparture ritual: “Got your lunch box?” he said.

She held it up. “Check!”

“Morning snack?”

“Check!”

“Afternoon snack?”

“Check!”

“Got your pencil case?”

She held that up. “Check!”

“Got your emergency quarter?”

She felt in her blazer pocket. “Check!”

“Then I guess you’re ready to go. Say good-bye to Nana.” He watched his mother and his daughter exchange a quick hug and a kiss; then he took Katie’s little hand in his and led her out the door.

A crisp April morning—spring was here but winter wasn’t letting go. One of those days it felt good to be alive.

And for John, this was the best time of day, the time he felt closest to Katie. He wanted that closeness, needed it, and knew she needed it too—desperately. He’d worked hard to let her know she was loved and cherished and that no one was ever going to hurt her again.

When they reached the corner, they stopped and waited for the bus.