“Oh, honey.” Kay leaned over and hugged him, her lips pressed to his temples. She wanted to pick up that little frail bundle and rock him so close he couldn’t cry. Damn. A seven-year-old could only understand so much… “She’s fine,” Kay soothed. “You’ve been so very brave-you think I didn’t notice?-and you’re going to see your mother in a few more days. I promise, Petie.”

“No,” he choked. “I’m sick of everybody saying that. Something’s happened to her…”

“Petie-”

“Sport?” The deep male voice startled Kay, and she jerked around. “If you really want to see her, we’ll manage it.”

“Mitch!” Peter cried. His two fists hurriedly rubbed the moisture from his eyes.

“You in the mood to take a ride this morning?”

“A ride?”

“Down to your mother’s room. We can’t go in, of course. But I can’t think of a reason in he-on earth why you couldn’t talk to her. If you want to.”

“I want to,” Peter breathed.

The stranger cocked his head in Kay’s direction as he moved forward. “So who’s your friend?” he asked Peter.

“Just Kay. Don’t you know Kay?”

“Now I do. Hello, just-Kay.”

Peter giggled. Kay found herself moving forward to accept a mock-formal handshake. “How do you do…?”

“Just Mitch.”

“How do you do, just-Mitch,” she said gravely.

“I’m pleased to meet you, just-Kay.”

“No, no,” Peter chortled. “You don’t say just-Kay-it’s just Kay.”

“Isn’t that what I said?” Mitch insisted.

“No!”

Like windmills, Kay’s hands were hurriedly trying to straighten her hair and tug down her sweater. Unobtrusively. While Peter continued to explain the vagaries of the English language to Mitch, Kay stole a studying glance at the stranger. He was about a zillion feet tall and lanky, all limbs and big hands. His broad shoulders were encased in a fisherman’s sweater, but beyond that he was rather lean. His old cords looked comfortable; his suede boots even more so. His movements were slow and sure, easy.