She had made it herself, with more batter on the stove than in the pan.

He accepted it with both hands and declared it the finest star he’d ever eaten.

She laughed, and I remember looking at him with such gratitude that it almost hurt.

A few weeks later he arrived with a book about constellations because she had become fascinated with the night sky.

He sat at the kitchen table while she pointed at pictures of the moon and asked whether rabbits could live there.

He answered with admirable seriousness.