“I got hit in the head.”

“Huh? You mean you can get…not-hearing and lose your ear from being hit in the head?”

I nodded. “If you get knocked out and land in the snow like I did.”

“Wow…you musta got hit real hard.”

“Yep. I was out for about five hours.” I hoped she wouldn’t quiz me further; I don’t lie well.

Beth saved me by mussing Kyle’s hair and making him groan. She told Missy that was enough, stop bothering the nice man, then looked at me. “We’re on our way to Indiana. We’re going to…stay with my folks for a while.”

“Gramma and Grampa told us we could come stay with them because our Daddy’s dead,” said Kyle matter-of-factly, as if he understood all about death and had accepted it and was wise beyond his years; which, in a way, I guess he was: bad wisdom is still wisdom.

As soon as he said “dead,” Beth shot me a look that was equal parts fear and pleading, and that’s all it took for me to know the rest of the story: Daddy wasn’t dead, Daddy was some white-trash asshole who’d decided he’d enough responsibility for one lifetime, and so took the car (or, more likely, the truck), all the money, and however much beer he could fit in the cooler and abandoned his family—odds are in an apartment from which they were about to be evicted anyway, leaving her to fend not only for herself but two kids and a dog. I wondered how Daddy had “died,” and if Beth had taken care to cover her tracks so he couldn’t suddenly resurrect himself from the dead once they were Indiana.

All of this I saw in her eyes for that brief moment; I nodded my head in understanding, and was rewarded with one of the most luminous smiles of gratitude I’d ever seen. These kids had nothing to worry about, not with this woman as their mother. I felt sorry for anyone stupid enough to try and pull anything on them. If Daddy did suddenly come back from the dead and show up in Indiana, my guess was he wouldn’t be out of that grave for long.

I pointed to the VCR, triumphant. Missy and Kyle applauded my efforts. I took a bow, then said: “Would you guys like some popcorn and sodas to snack on?”

I expected both of them to shout yes, but instead they looked at their mother, who shrugged and looked at me. “Can I have some too?”

“You were here in time for dinner, right?”

“Oh, uh…yes, we were. I just…the kids don’t get treats too often and…”

“I’ll make extra,” I said. “And don’t worry—we keep plenty on hand.” Which we did, at the Reverend’s insistence. Don’t ask me why, but somehow eating popcorn and sipping a soda while watching a good movie or a cartoon seems to make everyone happy, at least for a while. A mouthful of popcorn and you’re a kid again, at the movies with all the other kids, having a good time and enjoying the hell out of life, not at the end of your rope in a homeless shelter right before Thanksgiving and wondering where you’d be come Christmas morning. I guess for a lot of the people who come through here, the smell of popcorn is the smell of childhood, and that can make things easier, if only for a little while.