For several minutes, neither of us said anything.
Outside, a vehicle passed along our street.
A neighbor’s dog began barking.
The refrigerator made its familiar humming sound in the kitchen.
Everything felt comfortingly normal.
My thoughts returned to Frank.
A sixty-eight-year-old man who’d spent much of his career repairing engines before choosing to transport schoolchildren.
Someone who’d probably expected his greatest difficulty that Tuesday to involve traffic delays or an afternoon route running behind schedule.
Instead, he’d encountered an unfamiliar adult attempting to collect a little girl who didn’t recognize him.
Frank had refused.
Then the child’s mother shouted at him.
Reported him to the authorities.
And demanded action that could have threatened his employment.
Yet when I finally approached him to apologize, his first concern had been whether Ellie was alright.
I looked down at my daughter.
Her eyes had gently closed.
Her head rested comfortably against my arm.
