Molly laughed, an abrupt, spontaneous helplessness at her daughter's curious logic.

Feeling a little braver, Carrie added, “I promise not to wear really long, dangly earrings until I'm older.”

“The way your peer group's going, that'll be next week,” Molly said with a heartfelt sigh, not in the mood for discipline. Her blue eyes took on a sudden maternal directness. “But I want your word of honor, on one thing.”

“Sure, Mom.” Carrie was magnanimous in her victory.

“I don't want to see three earrings on each ear. Never. Understand, Munchkin?”

“Promise.” A radiant smile shone back at her.

Molly sighed one more time, a reflex action to their somewhat disparate notions of childhood. Did every eight-year-old girl in America have holes in her ears, a closet full of designer clothes, and the knowledge that rockabilly didn't mean what rockabilly used to mean? One glance at the clock reminded her that the riddles of the universe would have to wait. In the tone that all mothers acquire after watching children dawdle through three thousand and nineteen mealtimes, Molly admonished, “Now eat. You're going to be-” Her sentence was interrupted by a news bulletin flashing across the TV in stark black letters.

TERRORIST ATTACK! it proclaimed, and then the announcer's face replaced the clamoring headline. “Terrorist attack at the Rome airport!” The newsman's voice was excited. “Only minutes ago, four gunmen opened fire on passengers at the air terminal. We don't have all the details, but twelve people are known dead, two of them children. The death toll could-”

Molly switched the set off. “Lord, it's happening all the time. No one's safe.” Regret and resentment blended oddly in her voice.

“We are in Minneapolis,” Carrie replied with the calm innocence of insulated youth. “No terrorists have ever killed anyone in Minneapolis. Do I have time for hot chocolate?” And with that, terrorist attacks were dismissed from Carrie's mind.