Bennett ran in the front door with his yellow plastic dump truck, his blue sneakers squeaking on the polished floor.

He stopped by the hall arch and looked up at the ceiling, checking the freshly painted corners.

“The house smells like new paint, Mom,” Bennett said.

“That’s because it is new paint, sweetie,” I said, kneeling to untie his laces.

“The walls in your room are dry now.”

“Can we put the star stickers back up over my bed?” Bennett asked me.

“We’ll put every last star back up before dinner,” I said.