My son sobbed the entire drive to his grandmother’s house. “Daddy, please don’t leave me here.” My wife snapped, “You’re babying him.” I left him anyway. Three hours later, a neighbor called. “Your little boy ran to my house shaking. He’s hiding under my bed and won’t stop crying.”

That evening, after cake and dinner and Genevieve Fuller’s arrival with a homemade pie because she had become, in the most natural way, part of their family, Owen announced that when he grew up he might want to be “either a scientist, or a basketball player, or somebody who helps scared kids.” Genevieve cried. William laughed through tears. Owen pretended to be embarrassed and then asked for extra ice cream.

Genevieve had indeed become something like a grandmother in the years after the night he came through her fence. At first she visited because she worried. Then because Owen asked about her. Then because some bonds are created under such sharp circumstances that they leap over ordinary categories. She baked for them, watched Owen for short stretches once he felt safe enough, attended school events, and never once asked for gratitude as payment for kindness. William trusted her in a way he had not realized he could still trust adults.