“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Popsicle Patrol,” said the Reverend. “You need to go warm up the van.”

I looked out at the freezing rain—which was coming down even harder than before—and nodded my head. “I was wondering if we were going to do that tonight.” And I had been. I said good-bye to Timmy and was making my way toward the back when a little voice behind me said: “Mister, the tape won’t play.”

She stood there in all her three-year-old radiance, mussed hair, a smudge on one of her cheeks, hands on hips, one foot impatiently tapping, lower lip sticking out in what I’d bet was a well-practiced pout. I wanted to wrap her up and take her home with me.

“Is the tape broken?” I said, kneeling down so we could see eye to eye.

She tsk’d, rolled her eyes, and sighed. “Noooooo, it’s not broken. It just won’t play. They’re not the same thing, y’know.”

I looked toward the “lounge”—an area near one of the corners with three chairs, a sofa, a coffee table, and a television set—and saw the girl’s mother, brother, and dog staring at us. The dog in particular seemed irritated that the tape wasn’t doing its part to share in the duties of entertaining the kids. I told the little girl I’d see what I could do, and she grabbed my hand, dragging me toward the TV.

As soon as I knelt down in front of it I saw the problem. “It’s not the tape, honey—the VCR has to be set on Channel 3 or it doesn’t come through the TV.”

“Well, did you set it?”

“Missy!” said her mother. Then, to me: “Sorry. She really wants to watch the tape and she gets…a little impatient.”

“That’s okay.” I set the VCR and cued up the tape. This was a good one: A Charlie Brown Christmas, How the Grinch Stole Christmas, Frosty the Snowman, and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. The Reverend had taped a bunch of holiday specials and movies for folks to watch, to make their holidays here less depressing.

“My name’s Beth,” said the woman. “This is Melissa—”

“—Missy,” said the little girl.”

“Missy…excuse me. This is Kyle, and that bundle of fur on the floor is Lump”

Lump’s face was buried between his paws, but he managed to raise up one ear in greeting.

Missy walked over toward me, pointing. “What happened to your ear, Mister?”

“Melissa!” snapped Beth.

“It’s okay,” I said, touching the knot of scar tissue that clung to the side of my skull. I looked at Missy, trying to decide just how much of the truth to tell her. “Well, you see, Missy, I don’t have much of an ear left, so I can only hear out of the other one.”

Once again, she tsk’d at me, shaking her head. “I know you only got one ear, I see that. I mean, what happened to your ear?”

“You mean why isn’t it there anymore?”

“Uh-huh.”