else.”
“Maybe.”
She looked at me.
“But you might not have.”
– No.
We were silent.
Then she said, “That used to scare me.”
“What does?”
“How much life depends on accidents.”
I thought about that.
“I don’t think the crayon fixed anything.”
“No?”
“It made me notice.”
She waited.
“The rest was choices.”
Her head settled against my shoulder again.
That was the truth I eventually came to understand.
Meeting Luke and Violet had been chance.
Cassandra’s seat three rows behind the rolling crayon had been chance.
The Christmas Eve
