This shouldn’t have surprised me, given that he was asleep at seven and didn’t have supper. It was barely light outside when he crawled into my bed. “I want to call Daddy,” he said. “It’s too early.” I glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It read 6:35. “He’s up,” Henry said. Declan probably was up, but still. “Let’s wait a little while,” I whispered. “Come here.” I pulled him close and attempted to adjust the blankets around him. “No!” He squirmed away. “You said we could and we didn’t. I have to talk to Daddy!” I opened my eyes fully. “Why?” I asked. “I had a dream.” “What kind of dream?” “A bad guy got him. At work.” “Oh.” I sat up. Recently, Henry’s concept of what his dad did for a living had undergone an adjustment. For a long time, he seemed to imagine that the work of a Boston police detective resembled that of Michael, the friendly cop in Make Way for Ducklings. Michael lined up police protection so Mrs. Mallard could lead her babies across Beacon Street to meet the ducklings’ father in the Public Garden.
