“General, halt!” Maya commanded, in her tiny, absolutely authoritative voice, holding up a small yellow flower she had plucked from the grass.

“Enemy blossom spotted on the perimeter!”

Arthur stopped dead in his tracks, drew himself up, and offered a crisp, solemn salute to a five-year-old.

“Acknowledged, Captain Maya,” he said, with total military seriousness.

“Deploying gentle extraction protocol.” And he bent, slowly, with his cane, and plucked the flower, and presented it to her as though decommissioning a live device.

I leaned against the counter and watched the three of them, and a wave of something I had once believed I would never feel again moved through my chest — a deep, settled, unshakeable peace.