My name is Josephine Haley, though everyone calls me Jo. I was fifty-eight when a state trooper knocked on my door one icy Tuesday night in February. My son, Michael, and his wife, Rachel, had been killed when a tractor-trailer jackknifed on a bridge near Xenia, Ohio. Their four-year-old son, Kevin, was asleep on my couch beneath a green afghan when I heard the news. My husband had died three years earlier, and suddenly the little house in Kettering felt impossibly quiet. People told me I was too old to raise a child again. My sister Doris reminded me I would be seventy-two when Kevin finished high school. Rachel’s younger sister in Phoenix had offered to take him, but I barely knew her. I looked at the sleeping boy and knew my answer.

“He’s Michael’s boy,” I told Doris. “He’s staying with me.” I worked mornings in the Fairmont High School cafeteria and took a second job cleaning offices in downtown Dayton from six until eleven. Our neighbor, Mrs. Ortiz, watched Kevin at night without charging me. Every evening, I came home around eleven-forty smelling of floor wax. Kevin was supposed to be asleep, but he always waited on the couch, wrapped in my mother’s old green afghan. He would move over and whisper, “Grandma, I saved you the warm spot.” I would sit beside him, hold him close, and forget how tired I was. For six years, that small ritual became the safest part of both our lives.