Robbie stood on Bree’s thighs, his sturdy legs braced, and patted softly at her cheeks. “Gemple hands on Mommy,” he agreed.

All three girls were back on their own floats. Peace had been restored. They lay in a leg-locked chain, Peyton in the center, now singing loud and tunelessly along. They were asking again if the world was grand, and fun, and great. And good.

Watching Robbie pat his mother’s face, so soft, Marshall thought that it was as good as the world could be. Considering the world.

“You’re sweet,” Bree told her son, kissing his sweaty cheek. “You are so sweet!”

He would be, Marshall thought. They would work to make it so. And yet under her fond tone, he heard something else. Not sorrow. That had faded again. Something reverent, as if the words were more than an endearment. As if they were a tiny prayer.