When you were very small, he told her, on days when you'd wake up too early for your mother, I used to strap you against my chest and out we'd all go together, me and you and Oz, and if bundling you up and clamping you in didn't disturb you past the point of regaining composure, we would just walk and walk, the three of us, and those were the times that, believe it or not, I was so happy that I'd get sad, so content that this dumb melancholy would cut in, cause I would think to myself—she won't remember this, and silly as it sounds, that idea, that idea that we were having such a sweet, wholesome time together but that you'd never really know it happened—it devastated me.