When I closed the book, I asked, “What did the little bird need most to get through the storm?” Hands shot up.

“A map!” “A bigger tree!” “Its mom!” Then, from the back of the room, cutting through the chatter, Birdie’s voice, thin as glass: “Somebody who believes her.” The room went quiet.

I met her eyes and didn’t rush at her, didn’t make it a moment she’d have to survive.

I just nodded, slow and certain.

“Yes,” I said.

“Everybody needs that.”