His lips moved slightly, but she could not hear what he was saying. She glanced at Motholeli through the mud-streaked glass; she was stuffing something into a bag; she was absorbed.

“And how is she dealing with this?” Mma Ramotswe whispered.

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni looked up at her, and she saw that his eyes were moist. Men can cry. Mechanics. Any man.

“She is being very brave. It’s as if nothing has happened.” His voice broke off for a moment. Then, “She says that it was worth going. That she is glad that we tried.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “I will help her out of the truck,” she said. “You must be very tired. You go in and have a shower. All that dust, Rra. All that dust.”

There was much to do. Motholeli was insistent that she wanted to get back to school that morning, in spite of having got up so early. “I want to see my friends again,” she said. “I want to tell them about Johannesburg.”

After breakfast, Mma Ramotswe helped her into the tiny white van and loaded the wheelchair in the back. Then she drove off to the school and parked outside the main gate. They were early and there were no children about, just the man who swept the playground, moving slowly backwards and forwards, his brush raising a small cloud of dust with each stroke. Along the line of the gate, the grass, encouraged into growth by the heavy rains, was dark green, lush.

They sat there, waiting for other children to arrive.

“That grass,” said Mma Ramotswe, pointing to the fence. “Look at it. That would keep some cattle very happy. But there are no cattle in town these days. I remember when there were, you know. Lots of cattle. People just brought them into town with them to keep an eye on them. And I remember when we had telephones that everybody had to share—if you were lucky enough to have a telephone in the first place—party lines. When you spoke, other people could pick up their phone and listen too. You had to be careful.”

“I would not have liked that,” said Motholeli.

“You got used to it,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You can get used to anything, you know.” She had not intended to say that, and it was only afterwards that she realised that Motholeli might have misunderstood her, might have taken it badly. You can get used to anything—even a wheelchair, not being able to walk, even that. She had not meant to say it.

She glanced sideways at the little girl. Motholeli was looking at her hands, examining her fingernails.

“I am used to it now, Mma. I am used to…what has happened to me. You must not worry about me.”