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asked.
    “Huhwhahuh,” Rafe replied.
    “Grapefruit juice,” said Esme. “I’ll get it.”
    Soon they were all three enjoying their breakfast. Esme and Rafe’s cereal had gotten soggy, but soggy chocolate was still chocolate. The construction paper Sophie had left on their seats were Valentine’s Day cards, lovingly Crayola’d. She drew Rafe with his glasses on and with his beard trimmed. Neither applied to Rafe at the moment. Crayola Esme had small ears. Sophie knew how sensitive her mother was about her ears.
    “Come here,” said Esme, and hugged her daughter close.
    Rafe finished his cereal first. His breakfast was normally comprised of a stale doughnut and a cup of instant coffee, both procured from the social sciences department faculty lounge, so this was a huge improvement. True, he continued to act half-asleep—mumbling answers, exaggerating every yawn—but in actuality Rafe was having a wonderful time. He absently ruffled through his thinning black hair and wondered how he could make this moment last the rest of his life…or at least until the end of the semester.
    Ah, the work of the day beckoned. Rafe lumbered into the shower while Esme remained in the kitchen and helped Sophie finish filling out the Valentine’s Day cards for her classmates.
    “But, Mom…I don’t want to give one to Thad Crotty…he’s gross.”
    “What makes him gross?”
    “He smells like the garbage disposal.”
    “We shouldn’t judge people, Sophie. Everyone is unique and different. Like a snowflake.”
    They sealed tiny candy message-hearts into each of the miniature red envelopes—one for each of her classmates and one for Mrs. Leacy. Sophie deliberated extensively which message-hearts went to which classmates. By the time Rafe had rejoined them in the kitchen, dried off and spectacled and in full professor-mode, Esme and Sophie were only half done.
    “Better hurry up, kiddo,” said Rafe.
    He was Sophie’s morning chauffeur. They usually left the house at 7:15. Esme hustled their daughter intoher bedroom and helped her select The Perfect Outfit for Valentine’s Day.
    Meanwhile, Rafe contributed to Team Sophie by finishing up the cards. Before departing for her bedroom, Sophie gave him strict instructions. As he attempted to follow them, he also attempted to recollect his elementary school valentines. He couldn’t even recall the names of his instructors. He would be forty years old this July. This fact, unfortunately, he never seemed to forget.
    Esme joined him back at the table.
    “Sophie’s brushing her hair,” she said. “She wants privacy.”
    “Well, sure.”
    They kissed. Briefly—but briefly then lasted a minute. Two minutes. Hands touched cheeks. Mussed hair. Three minutes.
    “Happy Valentine’s Day,” whispered Rafe.
    “Happy Valentine’s Day,” whispered Esme.
    Sophie marched into the kitchen. “I’m ready!”
     
    At 10:00 a.m., Esme texted their babysitter, Chelsea, reminding the slightly scatterbrained but quite responsible teenager to come by the house no later than six o’clock. Rafe and Esme had strict dinner reservations at 6:30 p.m. at Il Forno.
    As soon as Esme returned her cell phone to the counter, it buzzed. Was that Chelsea already, sneaking a text message back to her from some high school classroom? Esme checked the screen.
    Tom Piper.
    Her phone buzzed again.
    Like most Americans, she had read about the attacks in Amarillo. The 24-hour news channels were still filled, three days later, with footage and interviews and expert opinions, not the mention rampant speculation. Was this attack related to the one in Atlanta? Was there a serial killer on the loose? It made for compulsive TV.
    Except for Esme. After her initial obsession about the Atlanta shootings, after Tom Piper had deconstructed her obsession into simple displacement, her interest in the story quickly faded. One might even say she became just as obsessively uninterested. Instead, Esme concentrated her days on her