“Every last penny of it is yours, Austin,” I said with a nod.

He gave one firm, satisfied nod, looking as though he had finally ticked off the last box on some invisible checklist of safety.

Then, without another second’s hesitation, he flung his arms around my neck with all the explosive, wild energy of a healthy nine-year-old boy.

It wasn’t the careful, fearful hug he had given me while I was holding my incision in the kitchen three months earlier.

And it wasn’t the desperate, frightened hug we had shared on the carpet next to his packed blue suitcase when he thought he was being thrown away.