It's Sunday, right? No? Sorry so late.

When the last bird falls

and the last siren sounds

someone will say what's been said before

-Patty Griffin, "Don't Come Easy."

Despite losing the evening in a bottle—the Kettle case was at a standstill and everyone was frustrated—Gibbs was up and our early the next morning. He carefully selected the same polo and jeans he'd worn last Saturday and made sure to grab his coffee close enough to home that he could drink it as he drove the thirty minutes to Congress Heights. Pulling into the weed-strewn parking lot, he checked his watch and killed the engine. Nine minutes early. The lights were on, but only one other car was in the lot. He surmised it was Mrs. Berman's.

Once in the classroom, Gibbs noticed a new bulletin board next to the bookshelf. A dozen green frogs swam on a background of blue craft paper, croaking the names of reading partners. Emma and Lazaro, they say in the speech bubbles of old newspaper comics. Frank and Andrew, Suzanne and Erika, John and Michael, Erin and Aracelie. Sara and Gibbs.

He smiled and hoped Sara would feel validated, maybe even special, at seeing her name on the board. His fondness for the kid had grown over the past seven days; it couldn't be helped. She was small and helpless, and that spoke to the part of him that was-is, he corrected—a father. Kelly's death didn't change his parenthood status. He would always be her father, even she was forever eight years old.

Ms. Berman, looking less frazzled, interrupted his reverie.

"Think the kids will like it? My high school volunteers spent an entire afternoon on that. They really hoped the little ones would feel special."

Gibbs turned, embarrassed at having been caught daydreaming.

"Yeah," he agreed. "I think they'll like it."

He could say no more. Volunteers poured in, hung their coats, and began milling around, murmuring over take-out cups of coffee and pastries. The children were due to arrive in fifteen minutes, giving the adults enough time to get assignments, choose books, get any special orders for the morning, and prepare themselves mentally for dealing with preschoolers for the next two hours.

A blonde woman—her wrinkled, liver-spotted hands revealed her facelift—approached Gibbs.

"Hey, I saw you reading to that little Mexican girl last week. Does she even speak English? I saw her before you showed up, but every time I tried to talk to her she just stared at me like I was speaking a foreign language."

Gibbs bristled, even though he'd only known Sara for a week.

"She speaks English just fine, she's just selective about who she talks to. And I'm not totally sure she's Mexican."

The woman sniffed and brushed at her ponytail, jingling the dozen Tiffany bangles around her wrist.

"She ought to be a little more grateful. We don't have to be here. It's for her enrichment, not ours."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that."

And with that, two toast-colored boys bounced in the door, slinging their backpacks down and making a run for a tall Black man seated in a very small chair.

"Franklin!" they cried, throwing their arms around him. "Franklin! Franklin!"

The reunion was sweet, but more kids came in, distracting the onlookers. Lazaro found Emma, Andrew poked at Frank's rolled shirtsleeves, Michael slapped John a high-five, Aracelie glowed as Erin exclaimed over her fancy headband. Sara was nowhere to be seen, but there was still time before she'd be considered tardy by the program. Gibbs stood by the bench—their bench—and waited.

And waited. Nearly everyone was reading, the room quiet, when a tall Black teenager entered, tugging a still-reluctant Sara by the hand. Gibbs hung back, watching. The boy reached into his pocket and tried to hand Sara something, but she shook her head, refusing to look at him. He was secretly glad—at least he wasn't the only one with whom she avoided eye contact. The boy put whatever he'd offered her back in his pocket, patted her shoulder, and left. Sara's eyes darted around the room and she spun, headed, no doubt, for the bathroom. Gibbs took the opportunity afforded him.

"Hey, Sara."

She froze.

He went on. "Remember me?"

No response, but she didn't cut and run.

"There's a frog saying our names on the bulletin board. Did you see that?"

He pointed and she stared, blank-eyed and unimpressed at the sea of frogs. He dropped his arm.

"Should we read about the farmer again, or choose another book?"

Slowly she turned, glancing first at his hands—resting easily at his sides—and then to the bookshelf before taking a breath.

"Maybenudderone."

"Ok."

He wanted to make some friendly approach, to pat her shoulder or take her hand as the boy had, but she flinched and stepped out of reach. Dropping his hand, he moved to the bookshelf. He waited for her to make a choice, rather than him. She reached for a slim blue book, tugged it off the shelf, and handed it to him without looking at the cover.

"This one?"

Shrug.

"Ok."

He started toward the bench and she followed, but not before the took the book back from him. Settling down, she handed it back.

"It was late one winter night," Gibbs read, "When Pa and I went owling."

Again, Sara sat at the opposite end of the bench but made it clear to him that she was listening. Turned towards him, she stretched to see the pictures right before he could turn the page.

"We went into the woods. The shadows were the blackest I have ever seen. They stained the white snow."

He stole a glance at her and wondered if she was troubled by the scary scene. She didn't appear to be upset, only curious about why he'd stopped.

"When you go owling, you have to be brave."

He seized his moment.

"I bet you're brave, Sara."

Should she patent that blank stare?

"I bet you are. You're pretty brave to come here every week and read with me."

Blank, still. And he found himself floundering; maybe he should change tactics.

"Was that your friend who came in this morning? Or your brother?"

"No." She was so quiet. "Das Miles. He lives by me. My porch an' his porch..."

She trailed off, but put her open hands side-by-side, trying to show him how the two porches sat in close proximity to one another.

"Do you live in the neighborhood?"

"Um. Yes? 'S' no farwalking. Wif Miles."

"You walk here with Miles and it's not very far."

"Yeh."

"That's good. Because if it was a long walk, you'd probably be too tired to read with me. I'd be disappointed."

She looked at him sideways and almost...almost smiled, but looked away again. He sensed that she was someplace else entirely, even though she hadn't left his side.

"Sara? What's your last name?"

"Cohen." Her speech was clear, her voice a little higher.

"Sara Cohen. That's a great name. It makes you sound very important."

"Sara Cohen, did you know that Gibbs isn't my given name? It's my last name. Do you know how funny my first name is?"

Blank stare.

"My first name is Leroy. Leroy Gibbs. Isn't that a funny name?"

She nodded, eyes still vague. He'd hoped for a different reaction.

"Im not'portant."

"What?"

"I'm not 'portant. Huh uh. Not."

Now it was his turn to stare. What was she telling him?

"Not 'portant. Not regular kid."

It dawned on him that while he didn't understand what she was saying, he was acutely aware that his heart was about to be broken. One one hand he didn't want to hear this, and on the other he really, really did.

"I'm not a 'portant regular kid," she said slowly. "I'm a foster kid."

Sara said foster kid the way most people say anthrax or terrorism or weeping sores. Suddenly the book was very small and his hands were very large. He kept his voice low and his tone gentle, afraid she's startle like a fawn and head off into darkest reaches of the woods.

"Being a foster kid doesn't make you unimportant. You're still a regular kid, even thought you night not live with your parents."

Gibbs held back a sigh. He knew about foster kids—mistreated by their families, shuffled like cards by the system, doled out to homes that were as bad or worse. They had poor high school graduation rates and good chances of ended up perpetuating the cycle of violence on their own children. But if this lie was going to do something for Sara—brighten her flat gaze or give her enough hope to come back next week—then it was worth it.

She looked at the book in his hands.

"Maybefinish?"

"When you go owling, you don't need words or warm or anything but hope. That's what Pa says. The kind of hope that flies on silent wings under a shining owl moon."

Because she was late, and because reading to Sara took longer than reading to most other children—Gibbs liked to lengthen the pages; he liked to think the imaginative work-out was good for both of them—Mrs. Berman was calling the children to clean up and gather their belongings. Sara sat, frozen as the trees in their story. She didn't want to go home. She didn't want to walk past Martin's Store and up the block to her street. She wanted to stay with Gibbs, even if it meant sitting on the hard bench and listening to stories all day.

"Time to go, Sar."

"Dun'wan'to."

"Next week, ok? Come right back next week and we'll read again. And maybe we'll read fast and then draw or something. Ok?"

He was surprised by the level of desperation in his own voice. His gut was telling him in no uncertain terms that she was leaving here for an unsafe world. His flesh crawled with self-loathing for allowing it to happen, but legally, there was little he could do. She hadn't disclosed any abuse, so any action he took now would likely backfire. He swallowed back a vague plan and brushed the back of knuckles against Sara's hand. She didn't pull away.

"Go now, ok? And next week we'll be together again. It'll be ok, Sar. Ok? Trust me."

She looked at him. Really looked at him; her seawater eyes met his and Gibbs realized that she didn't trust him. He was shocked at how much it hurt to know that; his whole life had been dedicated to making it ok and this was one of only a few times that he couldn't.

She slid off the bench and took quiet, measured steps to the classroom door.

"I'm comin' back. Saturday. You, too."

She was gone, and he was alone with the frogs.

Gibbs stood, knees creaking, stomach churning, and walked dazedly out the door and to his car. Settling into the driver's seat, he sighed, cursed the system, and pulled our his mobile phone.

"Abbs? Yeah, I need you to run a search for me. Got any time this afternoon?"