My four-year-old daughter, Emma, stood completely still for a moment—then suddenly rushed toward the pastor, shouting something that brought the entire room into stunned silence.

Not towards me.

Not towards Trevor.

He ran towards the shepherd.

I saw her cross the room among flowers and black shoes, small, rigid, with terror transformed into a kind of determination that no child should ever know.

Trevor let go of my arm too late.

Miriam froze for a second, as if a part of her had understood before everyone else that the real danger was not my mouth, but that girl’s.

Emma reached the pastor, tugged on his sleeve, and screamed with such clarity that it split the room in two.

—Pastor, do I have to tell everyone what Grandma put in the babies’ bottles?