“They can’t.”

A gust carried brown leaves across the path.

She watched them for a while before asking whether we could visit the market before I took her home.

I let her help me stamp the prices on jars of homemade jam.

She chose the neatest labels and lined them up like an inspector.

For half an hour she was simply a child, pleased to have useful work and a grandfather who believed she was excellent at it.

At drop-off, Mark approached my truck before Emma reached the house.