“Ssh. It’s all right,” Momma said.

It wasn’t all right. It wasn’t fair. Jo needed to talk to Dad. And he wanted to talk to her—she knew he did. At the dinner table, while the others chattered about movies or friends, she and Dad always talked about what she was reading or thinking, tossing sentences back and forth the way another father and daughter might play catch.

But Amy got away with it because she was adorable. Not responsible like Meg or good at school like Jo or sweet like Beth, but small and super cute—their own little Disney princess with big blue eyes and smooth blond hair. Standing next to her, Jo felt like a giraffe, all long legs and knobby knees and spots.

Amy shot her a triumphant look and tucked the receiver out of reach beneath her chin. “I’m making you a present,” she told Dad. “A wallet with all our pictures in it.”

Which explained the mess on the coffee table.

“Thank you, Princess,” Dad said.

“You won’t have it in time for Christmas, though,” Amy said.

“That’s okay. I got the care package you sent,” he said. “I appreciate the cookies. And the movies.”

“Give me the phone,” Jo said.

Amy angled her body away, still holding the receiver tight. “I put in White Christmas.”

“I saw,” Dad said. “It made me think of you.”

“Are you watching it?”

“Not tonight,” Dad said. “One of the other soldiers needed it tonight. He came into my tent to browse the DVDs and stayed awhile, talking. But I’m listening to your Christmas CD.”

“That’s from Beth,” Amy said.

“Mouse? Is she there?”

Amy thrust the phone at Beth, who clasped her hands in front of her, twisting her fingers together. “Oh, but I . . . What about Jo?”

But Bethie needed to talk to Daddy even more than Jo did. Hardly a week went by without Beth reporting to the school nurse complaining of cramps, a headache, an upset stomach—whatever ailment would get her excused from class that day.

“She’s adjusting,” Momma had said.

To the move? Jo wondered. Or to their father being gone?

“It’s okay.” Jo forced the words out. “We have plenty of time.”

Fifteen minutes. Eleven of them gone already, whizzing by like bullets. One for every month that Dad had been away.

“I say my prayers for you every night,” Beth told Dad.

“That’s my good girl,” he said. He asked how she was feeling, if she was still practicing her guitar.

“Jo’s turn,” Momma said at last.

Jo took the phone eagerly. But when she tried to speak, all her emotions rushed in on her, congesting her chest, sticking in her throat. “Hi, Daddy.” Her voice cracked.

“Hey, little woman.”

“How . . . How’s your Christmas?”

“Good,” he said heartily. “They made us a real holiday dinner here on base. Turkey and stuffing.”

“We’re having turkey, too,” she said, hungering for his attention. His approval.

Momma held up a finger. “One minute left.”