Not alone, we realize. "That's him," my wife observes. Our cars float down the drive like two skimming birds; we alight at an open place between groves of trees. The man gets out, shifts the box, extends an arm -- "This way," he says, and starts. "That's him," I say; he stops. "I'll carry him." He hesitates, then passes me the box. I pull it against my side, rest it near the hip, the place one perches the straddling kid who cannot walk any farther. My wife comes up, eyes big on me, I smile: so far, so good.
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