I walked her down the hall to her first-grade classroom, watched her go inside, and left the building before the second bell.

At one fifteen that afternoon, I was standing in aisle four of the Kroger on Main Street holding a yellow carton of two percent milk.

Caroline stepped out from behind the butter case with a wire shopping basket hooked over her arm.

She was wearing her dark brown wool coat with the missing top button.

“You ought to be ashamed to show your face in this town,” Caroline said.

Her sharp voice carried past the sour cream all the way down to the bakery counter.