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the hook. “Thank you for the coffee, Ian. A treat to have real sugar for a change.” He turned, allowing Collins to help him on with his coat.
    “Now, Ian. You think hard about what I said in our little talk. The boy’s been through a terrible ordeal. He needs normalcy and routine right now. I know you can’t change all your ways in a matter of days, or replace a mother’s love, but I’m just asking you . . . see what you can do to lighten his load. Would you do that for me, now? When Shawn gets home, maybe we can all sit down and figure something out together.”
    What an agonizing thought; Collins couldn’t even allow an image of it to form in his head. “I’ll let you know, Father.” He opened the front door.
    “I’ll be off then, Ian. The Lord bless you and keep you. My, what a frosty morn.”
    Collins quickly closed the door. As he walked the cups and saucers back to the kitchen, he tried to ward off any sense of guilt about whether he had just lied to a priest. It wasn’t lying in the true sense of the word, he decided. It was pretending to pay attention. And the fact that he didn’t tell the father about the feud between him and Shawn wasn’t a lie, either. Not telling someone a thing is not the same as telling them something that is untrue.
    What’s a few more weeks in purgatory? he thought. A small price to pay, considering. After rinsing the cups, he decided he better go check on the boy. He’d had plenty of time to do what he’d been told.
    Collins dried his hands and braced himself for a fresh onslaught of Christmas cheer.

Nine
    Patrick had set the wooden soldier aside as he worked his way through the box of decorations. He positioned it under the window so he could see it plainly at all times. By contrast the luster of the Christmas box had already faded. In about twenty minutes, he gathered a sufficient pile of decorations, made sure he could replace them in their assigned locations, then walked over to the wooden soldier and picked it up.
    He couldn’t just leave him here now that he’d discovered him. His grandfather would never allow him back up here to play. As he sat on an old cane chair, he stroked the soldier’s helmet and thought through a plan. He remembered his friend Billy saying people only put things in attics they don’t care about anymore. But they do care a little, otherwise they’d have thrown them out. This soldier must have been lying here for years, totally forgotten. It was caked in dust, like everything else up here. Maybe it was like Billy said, almost ready for the trash but not quite. Maybe his grandfather would let Patrick borrow it. He would promise not to hurt it. He wouldn’t even play with it, just set it on his dresser next to the picture of his parents.
    Then maybe if he was really good, his grandfather would let him take it home when his father came to pick him up. Patrick smiled at that thought; his father would love this soldier.
    He got up and carefully weaved his way back toward the stairs, cradling the soldier in his right arm. He’d come back for the decorations later. Barely halfway down the stairs, he heard footsteps coming up from the ground floor. He froze. Quick, he thought, back up the stairs and put the soldier back, right where you found it. No, don’t do that. Stick to the plan; it’s a good plan. It might work. This soldier wouldn’t give up and run away.
    Patrick took two more steps forward. The door opened. “Oh, hi. I was just coming down to—”
    “Well, Father O’Malley is finally gone. Hey, what is that you’ve got there?”
    “This? I found it up there, over by the—”
    “Who said you could touch that?”
    “Well, no one. I—”
    “Give me that.”
    His grandfather lunged toward him. Patrick fell back on the stairs. His grandfather snatched the wooden soldier from Patrick and stormed past him back up the stairs.
    “I’m sorry, sir. I wasn’t taking it. I was just coming down to ask your permission.”
    “Don’t