“Once upon a time, a big ugly, smelly giant found his way inside Uki’s village.” She pauses to show me the picture of a thick-legged, one-eyed giant who appears to be wearing a diaper. “And the giant had a heart that was a big black piece of coal, and he stomped around the entire town like a giant baby.” She smiles. “I like that part.”

She turns the page. “So everybody in the village was hiding from him, ’cept for one little boy who didn’t know any better. The giant saw the boy, and he grabbed for him ’cause giants eat kids ’cause we’re delicious and taste like candy.”

I hide my smile and notice how her writing is uneven and messy, the sentences curving down the page.

The next page has an illustration of a pink stick-figure girl with long hair and what I think is a pink cape. “So Uki picked up the biggest rock she could find and put it into her slingshot. ‘Let go of that boy,’ she yelled. But the giant didn’t listen, so she pulled her slingshot way, way back and let the rock fly. And it hit him in the forehead and knocked him out.”

I can see that she ran out of space, turning her writing into tiny, minuscule print to keep it on the page. “When the giant fell the whole village shook like there was an earthquake.”

She turns the page to a big heart and one large-printed sentence. “And the boy loved her from that day on.”

“You’re a great storyteller,” I say.

“Thanks!” She touches her head. “Do you like my hair?”

“I do; it’s very beautiful. Did you do it yourself?”

She shakes her head. “Nope.”

“Time to move on, class. Everyone say thank you to Ms. Claire, please.”

The little girl hops up and hugs me. I smell hairspray and vanilla, and I am touched by her sudden affection. “Thank you,” she whispers against my shoulder. I touch her hair—it is stiff and full of bobby pins—before she pulls away and skips back to her seat.

I’m in the school tunnel heading in the direction of BTI. Glimpses of my purple socks remind me that it’s a Thursday. My phone tells me the time and buzzes with a reminder of what I’m doing. Home for lunch and shower. A woman walks toward me from the other end of the tunnel. I squint—it’s my mother, and I immediately pull out a note card from my pocket, glance over the three lines to me, feel a pang even if I already know that she’s here and Dad is dead. When we meet in the middle, she smiles and hands me a note card. I live in Whittier and I’m sober. I watch you manage your days with skill and grace and confidence. You amaze me. Love, Mom.