Keegan slept in my bedroom, and I took the old sofa that wrecked my back a little more every night, and I never once considered switching, because a kid who has lost everything should at least get the bed.

I learned to pack a school lunch before my six-thirty morning shift.

I learned to comb a small boy’s hair for picture day so it lay flat, which is harder than it sounds.

I learned that when he ran a fever he wanted a little nightlight left burning by the door, and that he would not say so, and that I had to know without being told.

I learned the names of his teachers and his classmates and every single kid on the playground who ever made him cry, and I held a private grudge against every one of them, five-year-olds though they were.