He thought he would draw a big, giant house, just like their house, with the old barn that was Dad’s workshop. And there would be lots of snow, too. Eight whole feet of snow and millions and billions of snowmen.

And a dog.

Grandpa and Grandma had a dog, and even though Buddy was sort of old, he was fun. But he had to stay at Grandma’s. One day he’d have a dog all of his own and its name would be Mike and he’d chase balls and sleep in the bed at night.

He could have one as soon as he was old enough to be responsible. Which could even be tomorrow.

Jack peeked up to study his father’s face and see if it was maybe time to ask if he was responsible yet.

But his dad had that look where he was kind of frowning but not mad. His working look. If you interrupted the working look, the answer was almost always: Not now.

But the alphabet was boring. He wanted to draw the house or play with his trucks or with the computer. Or maybe just look outside and see if it was snowing yet.

He butted his foot against the desk. Squirmed. Butted his foot.

“Jack, don’t kick the desk.”

“Do I have to write the whole alphabet?”

“Yep.”

“How come?”

“Because.”

“But I got all the way up to the P.”

“If you don’t do the rest, you can’t say any words that have the letters in them you left out.”

“But—”

“Can’t say ‘but.’ B-U-T.”

Jack heaved the heavy sigh of a six-year-old. He wrote the next three letters, then peeked up again. “Dad.”

“Hmm.”

“Dad, Dad, Dad, Dad. D-A-D.”

Brody glanced up, saw his son grinning at him. “Smart aleck.”

“I know how to spell Dad and Jack.”

Brody narrowed his eyes, lifted a fist. “Do you know how to spell knuckle sandwich?”

“Nuh-uh. Does it have mustard?”

The kid, Brody thought, was sharp as a bucket of tacks. “How’d you get to be such a wise guy?”

“Grandma says I got it from you. Can I see what you’re drawing? You said it’s for the dancing lady. Are you drawing her, too?”

“Yes, it’s for the dancing lady, and no, you can’t see it until you’re finished your job.” However much he wanted to set his own work aside and just be with his son, the only way to teach responsibility was to be responsible.

That was one of those sneaky circles of parenthood.

“What happens when you don’t finish what you start?”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Nothing.”

“Exactly.”

Jack heaved another sigh and applied his pencil. He didn’t see his father’s lips twitch.

God, what a kid. Brody wanted to toss his own pencil down, snatch Jack up and do whatever this major miracle of his life wanted to do for the rest of the evening. The hell with work, with responsibility, with what needed to be done.

There was only one thing he wanted more than that. To finish what he started. There was no job more vital than Jack O’Connell.