The woman hesitated. Something in his face made her lower the microphone.
But the van didn't leave until dark.
That night, Emily sat at the kitchen table with her chin in her hands.
"Daddy, are you famous now?"
Daniel put a plate of grilled cheese in front of her and sat down.
"No, sweetheart. Some people saw a video. In a week, they'll be watching a video of a cat playing the piano, and they'll forget all about us."
"Kayla's mom said you were on TV."
"Kayla's mom watches a lot of TV."
Emily giggled. Then she grew serious, in that sudden way children do.
"Is it bad? That people know?"
Daniel looked at her for a long moment.
"It's not bad," he said slowly. "It's just... that part of my life was a long time ago. I left it there for a reason. I left it there for you."
"Did Mommy know?"
The question landed softly. But it landed deep.
"Yes," he said. "Mommy knew everything."
After Emily fell asleep, Daniel went out to the back porch and sat in the old wooden chair that his wife had painted blue the summer before she died.
Her name was Sarah.
She had been a nurse. She laughed too loud at movies and sang badly in the car and never once let Daniel feel like a broken man, even on the nights he woke up shaking, reaching for a rifle that wasn't there.
She was the one who told him to come home for good.
"You've carried enough people, Danny," she'd said, holding his face in both her hands. "Let somebody carry you for a while."
And he had. For five beautiful years, she carried him.