Kids were still lined up.
A few of them wanted to ask about trucks.
Most didn’t.
One girl with braces said her mother cleans offices at night and always hides it when school forms ask what parents do for work.
A boy in a baseball cap said his uncle fixes heating units and people call him “just a repair guy,” even though everybody panics when the heat goes out.
One quiet little girl with pink shoelaces said her grandmother folds laundry at a nursing home and comes home smelling like bleach and peppermint lotion.
“She says not to tell people because it sounds sad,” the girl whispered.
I crouched down so we were eye level.
“It doesn’t sound sad to me,” I said.
“It sounds like she’s helping people.”
The girl looked like somebody had loosened a knot in her chest.
That nearly undid me more than the applause had.
Then the skinny boy in the gray hoodie came over.
Closer up, he looked even younger.
Thirteen, maybe.
Fourteen at the most.
Freckles.
Sharp collarbones.
A face that had learned to stay brave too early.
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