tone was music to Dan’s ears.
“May I assume, Bobby, if I can talk the good deputy into letting you go, that it will be your
last
time?”
The other boy looked up. “It’s not
my
fault—”
Her hand shot up again, backing the boy’s words into his throat. “We’re not talking fault here—” her tone hardened a fraction—“although you are older than your brother. And if I remember correctly, your daddy entrusted you with keeping him out of trouble?”
Bobby stared down at his shoes. This time when he spoke he was equally subdued. “Yes, Miss Wilson.”
“Doesn’t seem as if you’ve done a very good job, now does it?”
“No, Miss Wilson.”
“I’d like to think I can count on you to do better from now on.”
At the softening in her tone, Bobby looked up.
“Because I think Justin is scared. About your mom being sick. And since your dad is so busy taking care of her, he needs you to help him do what’s right. To make your folks proud of you both. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
Dan watched the play of emotion on the boy’s features, wishing he could see Shelby’s face. But whatever her expression, it must have hit home. Because young Bobby straightened in his chair, and an air of determination settled over him. “Yes, Miss Wilson. That’s what I want.”
She took the boy’s hand and squeezed it. “I know it is.” She peeked over her shoulder at Dan. “Well, Deputy, what do you think?”
He let the boys stew while he seemed to roll the idea around in his head. “Still have to call their parents.”
She ignored the boy’s groans. “Of course.”
“And give them community service, probably about a hundred hours.”
“A hundred hours!”
At the older boy’s outburst, Shelby turned with a quick frown. “You think that’s too much, do you?”
Bobby squirmed in his chair. “Well, gosh … I mean …”
She didn’t say anything, just waited. The boy swallowed with difficulty, stubbing his toe into the floor. “Um … no.”
“Well then?”
He stared at the floor then dragged his gaze back to Shelby. “Okay.”
“Good.” Shelby turned back to Dan. “Would you like to call their parents, or shall I?”
He pushed the phone toward her. “You’re the boss.”
Her smile was just this side of wicked. “And don’t you forget it.”
EIGHT
“No straight lines make up my life
,
and all my roads have bends.”
H ARRY C HAPIN
“Teach us to make the most of our time
,
so that we may grow in wisdom.”
P SALM 90:12
O NE Y EAR L ATER
“I WANT A UNICORN.”
Dan looked up from stirring a bowl of pancake batter. His youngest child stood in the kitchen doorway, the early morning sun lighting her face as she rubbed a small fist into her sleep-filled eyes.
Finally. He’d been calling for her and her brother to get up for almost an hour. Amazing how a child’s ability to hear seemed to drop in direct correlation to his or her desire to do what was being requested.
Either that, or sleep made kids deaf. Dan hadn’t decided which was accurate.
He’d finally given in to the ultimate weapon: start breakfastand let the smells do what his authority alone couldn’t—get them out of bed.
“A what?”
Shannon padded over to lean her elbows on the kitchen island, bending forward just enough to lift her feet off the floor. Dan watched her, marveling. How could one year bring such change?
Last summer, Shannon had been all little girl, playing with dolls and talking to her stuffed animals in the full belief they heard and understood her. And heaven knew there had to be at least a dozen stuffed animals on her bed before she could go to sleep at night. Then just two weeks ago, on the first day of August, Shannon turned twelve.
Suddenly, something changed. It was as though some inner cognition roused from slumber and roared to life, triggering a startling metamorphosis. The stuffed animals and dolls made way for funky pillows on her bed. Her walls were plastered with
“May I assume, Bobby, if I can talk the good deputy into letting you go, that it will be your
last
time?”
The other boy looked up. “It’s not
my
fault—”
Her hand shot up again, backing the boy’s words into his throat. “We’re not talking fault here—” her tone hardened a fraction—“although you are older than your brother. And if I remember correctly, your daddy entrusted you with keeping him out of trouble?”
Bobby stared down at his shoes. This time when he spoke he was equally subdued. “Yes, Miss Wilson.”
“Doesn’t seem as if you’ve done a very good job, now does it?”
“No, Miss Wilson.”
“I’d like to think I can count on you to do better from now on.”
At the softening in her tone, Bobby looked up.
“Because I think Justin is scared. About your mom being sick. And since your dad is so busy taking care of her, he needs you to help him do what’s right. To make your folks proud of you both. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
Dan watched the play of emotion on the boy’s features, wishing he could see Shelby’s face. But whatever her expression, it must have hit home. Because young Bobby straightened in his chair, and an air of determination settled over him. “Yes, Miss Wilson. That’s what I want.”
She took the boy’s hand and squeezed it. “I know it is.” She peeked over her shoulder at Dan. “Well, Deputy, what do you think?”
He let the boys stew while he seemed to roll the idea around in his head. “Still have to call their parents.”
She ignored the boy’s groans. “Of course.”
“And give them community service, probably about a hundred hours.”
“A hundred hours!”
At the older boy’s outburst, Shelby turned with a quick frown. “You think that’s too much, do you?”
Bobby squirmed in his chair. “Well, gosh … I mean …”
She didn’t say anything, just waited. The boy swallowed with difficulty, stubbing his toe into the floor. “Um … no.”
“Well then?”
He stared at the floor then dragged his gaze back to Shelby. “Okay.”
“Good.” Shelby turned back to Dan. “Would you like to call their parents, or shall I?”
He pushed the phone toward her. “You’re the boss.”
Her smile was just this side of wicked. “And don’t you forget it.”
EIGHT
“No straight lines make up my life
,
and all my roads have bends.”
H ARRY C HAPIN
“Teach us to make the most of our time
,
so that we may grow in wisdom.”
P SALM 90:12
O NE Y EAR L ATER
“I WANT A UNICORN.”
Dan looked up from stirring a bowl of pancake batter. His youngest child stood in the kitchen doorway, the early morning sun lighting her face as she rubbed a small fist into her sleep-filled eyes.
Finally. He’d been calling for her and her brother to get up for almost an hour. Amazing how a child’s ability to hear seemed to drop in direct correlation to his or her desire to do what was being requested.
Either that, or sleep made kids deaf. Dan hadn’t decided which was accurate.
He’d finally given in to the ultimate weapon: start breakfastand let the smells do what his authority alone couldn’t—get them out of bed.
“A what?”
Shannon padded over to lean her elbows on the kitchen island, bending forward just enough to lift her feet off the floor. Dan watched her, marveling. How could one year bring such change?
Last summer, Shannon had been all little girl, playing with dolls and talking to her stuffed animals in the full belief they heard and understood her. And heaven knew there had to be at least a dozen stuffed animals on her bed before she could go to sleep at night. Then just two weeks ago, on the first day of August, Shannon turned twelve.
Suddenly, something changed. It was as though some inner cognition roused from slumber and roared to life, triggering a startling metamorphosis. The stuffed animals and dolls made way for funky pillows on her bed. Her walls were plastered with
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