“Mommy, how come that soldier man is talking so loud?” the little girl asked in a high, clear voice.

“Shh, sweetie,” Clara whispered.

“He’s just talking to his friends.”

Clara moved her shoulder bag again, glancing nervously across the aisle at Evan, then back at me with a look of quiet worry.

The little girl wriggled on Clara’s lap, trying to fix her pink canvas shoes.

As she moved, a bright red plastic toy truck slipped out of her small fingers and clattered onto the terrazzo floor.

The toy rolled three feet across the aisle and came to rest right against the shiny black toe of my right dress boot.