That night before bedtime, Caroline found a slender cord of Christmas lights in the basement. Crawling on hands and knees, she installed them along the upstairs hallway.

“Did I miss something?” asked Mom, arriving from the laundry room with a stack of folded clothes. “Are we putting up lights super early, or are these for the Easter Bunny?”

The children, watching from the doorway of their room, giggled softly.

“Neither,” Caroline said. “I’m illuminating the route from the kids’ room to mine.” She looked over at Addie and Flick, freshly bathed and wearing their jammies. “You want to tell Grammy Dot the reason for this?”

“So we can find her in the night,” said Flick.

Her mother rocked back on her heels. “That seems like a very good idea. I’d hate to lose my daughter in the night.”

That drew a smile from Addie. Caroline took a few moments to show them how to follow the lights from their room, down the hall and to hers. “I’m not saying you should come and find me, but if you really, really need to, then the lights will show you the way.”

“I have a request,” said her mother. “While Caroline is finishing up, I would like to tuck you in. Would that be all right?”

The kids exchanged a glance. Caroline could tell they were drawn to her mother, but still unsure. They had tagged along with her all day as she went about her chores. Now they regarded her with sober, measuring expressions.

“She’s a good tucker-inner,” Caroline said.

“Okay,” Flick said, “we’ll give her a shot.”

Chapter 9

On Sunday night, Caroline had a special treat for the children. “I’m going to read you another one of my oldest and best books,” she announced. “My mom read it aloud to us, one chapter every night, and it became my favorite story. So I’m excited to share it with you.”

She lay down on Addie’s bed and the kids snuggled close. “It’s a story about a boy and his dog,” she said. “A classic.”

“The pictures aren’t in color,” Addie observed.

“You can color them in your mind while I read.” Caroline opened to chapter 1. She didn’t remember the story so much as the feeling of being gathered with her siblings around their mother. Safety and comfort. That was what she wanted to give Addie and Flick. She didn’t know how, and she didn’t even know if it was possible, but snuggling together in the warm glow of a reading lamp seemed like a good place to start.

“‘We called him Old Yeller,’” she read. “‘The name had a sort of double meaning. One part meant that his short hair was a dingy yellow, a color that we called yeller in those days . . .’”

“Somebody scribbled in the book,” Flick said.

“Yeah, that’s weird.” There was a thick black line through a sentence or two, as if the text had been redacted by a censor. “People shouldn’t make marks in books. Anyway, let’s keep going. We won’t miss a few words.”

By the time she got to the end of the chapter, the kids were thoroughly invested in Travis and Yeller, who had to look after Travis’s mom and little brother while their father hit the trail to drive the cattle to market. Flick and Addie begged for more of the story, but she held firm at one chapter per night.

When she tried to tuck them in, Flick was restless, kicking at the covers, staring out the window, worrying the corner of his pillow.

“What’s going on, buddy?” asked Caroline, setting down the book.

“I can’t go to school tomorrow.”

Oh, boy. “We’ve been talking all day about how much fun you’re going to have with your new friends and teachers,” she said.

“I don’t feel good,” he said. “I’m getting sick.”

“I don’t feel good, either,” Addie piped up, patting her stomach.

She felt both their foreheads. “Cool as a cucumber,” she said. “I think maybe you might be feeling nervous about starting school in the morning. You think that could be it?”

“Duh,” Flick said softly.

“We won’t know anybody,” Addie said.

“It’s always a bit scary to start something new,” Caroline said, her own stomach twisting with nerves. “But once you start, you get over the new really quick.”

“Nuh-uh,” Addie objected.

“Fern goes to your school, and you know her.” Caroline’s niece, outgoing and guileless, had instantly embraced the elder cousin role.

“She’s in third grade,” Flick said.

“So will you be one day.”

“Not tomorrow.”

“True. Tomorrow, the teachers are going to make sure you settle right in,” Caroline said. During the trip from New York, she had called ahead to explain the situation to the school principal and faculty. The school staff had sounded reassuring. “I’ve already talked to your teachers,” she reminded them. “They’re excited to meet you.”

“Teachers have to like us,” Flick pointed out. “Kids don’t.”

“Why wouldn’t they like you?” Caroline asked. “You’re awesome.”

“They won’t like us ’cause we’re brown.”

Caroline was taken aback. “What makes you say that?”

“’Cause they’re white.”

“I’m white and I like you,” Caroline said. She didn’t want to be one of those white people who pretended to be color-blind, knowing full well the world didn’t work that way. “And some of the kids at your school are brown, too. And Asian and Latino and maybe even Kreyòl like you and your mama. You’re going to make a lot of new friends. I know it seems hard. It is hard.”

Addie’s lower lip poked out. She grabbed her Wonder Woman doll and made her soar up and over the mound formed by her knees. “I wish I could fly away and never come back.”

“You can’t do that,” Caroline said. “We need you here with us.”

“Then I wish I had a superpower,” she said.

“I think you do,” Caroline pointed out. “Both of you do. You’re super nice and super strong and super smart.”

Flick sniffed. “All parents say that to their kids.”

I’m not your parent.

“I don’t know about that, and I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it. I just know you’re both going to be super in your new school.”

Addie adjusted the doll’s spangled top and carefully straightened the wispy cape. “How? How do you know?”

“I’m smart, too. I know stuff.” She got up and went to the closet. “Tell you what. We can pick out your clothes for tomorrow and lay them out, so you can be super quick in the morning. What would you like to wear?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Flick said glumly. He chose a plain blue T-shirt, slightly worn but clean.

“Good choice,” Caroline said. “Navy is a classic.”

Addie selected a yellow one. “This is my favorite color.”

“Then you should wear it, because it matches your personality—sunny and bright.”

“Mama always got us new clothes for the first day of school.”

Caroline’s heart sank. She hadn’t thought about getting them something new to wear. The list of things she didn’t know about parenting was getting longer by the moment. “Tell you what. I’ll iron your shirts and pants so they look brand-new, okay?”

This did not appear to impress them. Addie yawned and snuggled under the covers with her doll. Caroline tucked her in, then Flick.

“You’re going to do all right,” she said. “Get some rest and I’ll see about blueberry pancakes in the morning.” She gave them each a kiss, a gesture that was, day by day, starting to feel more natural. On her way out, she took the kids’ shirts with her. She stood outside in the hallway, trying to force away the knot of anxiety in her gut. What would it be like for these kids to walk into their classrooms tomorrow, midyear, without seeing a single familiar face? Caroline really did wish she could give them a superpower—confidence to face all the changes in their lives. Maybe . . . She held out the T-shirts, feeling a tingle of inspiration as an idea formed.

Downstairs, her parents were cuddled together on the sofa, binge-watching some violent series or other. Caroline rolled back her shoulders, feeling a crick in her neck. “Kids are exhausting,” she said.

“Gosh, we wouldn’t know,” her mother said.

“Hey, you had five kids by choice.”

“Only because I couldn’t talk her into six,” her father said.

God.

“I need to sew something,” she said.

“Now?”

“I’m going to repurpose some shirts so the kids have something special to wear to school tomorrow. Is there an old windbreaker I can cut up?”

Her mom got up. “I’m sure we can find whatever you need in the giveaway bin. Let me give you a hand.”

“I don’t want to interrupt your evening—”

“No worries. The zombie apocalypse will wait.” She patted Dad on the shoulder. “Come find me if it gets too scary.”