“Where did you hear that name?”

“I looked you up.” She said it without any guilt at all, because she is seven, and because I have never once told her not to. “There’s a newspaper story from when we were babies.

There’s a picture.”

She held up her hand, small and flat, the way children do when they are about to say a thing they have already decided is important.

“Mom. It’s the man from the street. From when we saw the leaves.”

I sat down on the floor of my own hallway, which is not a thing generals do, and it turns out is exactly the right thing to do when your daughter is seven and standing up.