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child is the hardest thing anyone can go through,” said Dexter.  “How are you going to deal with this?”
    “Well, whenever I start thinking about her not being here I force myself to remember the time I had with her.  It may sound stupid but I tell myself her favorite knock-knock joke.  The one about an interrupting cow.”  He laughed out loud, but the sound was cut off by the lump in his throat.  He added, “I’m just glad I had those years.”
    Freddy came out of the back room, obviously surprised to see the emotion on Dexter’s face.  He also noticed Dexter’s still clean clothes.  He introduced himself to Tom and expressed condolences in the warm, pitying way learned only in funeral director school.  Then he asked Dexter if there was anything wrong.
    Dexter shook his head.  “I’m just heading out now.”
    Tom offered Dexter his hand and thanked him.  “I don’t know how we could get through this without the support of friends and family, and even complete strangers.”  The hand shake was firmer and longer than it had to be.
    “My condolences to you and your wife,” answered Dexter.  He turned and walked outside.  He didn’t get into his car to go home, and he didn’t walk toward the equipment shed.  He walked toward the only part of the cemetery he hadn’t visited since being employed there.  It was a row he knew better than any other.
    The walk wasn’t long, even though it had taken him seventeen years to arrive.  By the time he stood in front of his daughter’s headstone, he felt the weight of a long journey finally completed. 
    An angel graced the upper corner of the white marble stone.  The words inscribed under the cherub were as crisp as they had been the day it was placed at the grave.
     
    Camille Jean Wilkinson
    March 1, 1991 – June 2, 1994
    “Our precious angel”
     
    Our precious angel , he thought as the tears flowed in a steady stream.  Dexter had forgotten the inscription.  For seventeen years he remembered the paramedics who had arrived almost instantly, scooping little Camille up and driving off in the ambulance.  He remembered telling Dru about the gate.  He remembered the casket being lowered into the ground.  Every negative experience was preserved perfectly.  Guilt had worn deep tracks into his mind from frequent replay.
    In less than five minutes Tom Howard had helped him realize he was doing it all wrong.  He dug past the guilt and despair and thought back to the first time he saw his little Camille.  Wrinkly, pale, and covered with a white waxy film, she had inspired an overwhelming sense of wonder.  Camille was the firstborn of the twins.  Dexter never could tolerate blood, and expected to have a hard time at the delivery, but it turned out to be as close to a truly religious event as he had ever experienced.
    Camille’s first steps came to mind.  A week before her first birthday she took a few steps across the thin blue carpet in their living room.  Her blue eyes were bright, both at the thrill of walking and her parents’ reaction.  After two or three successful attempts she ended up next to Tracy, both clinging to the couch.  Camille took Tracy’s hand and set off with a smile and a squeal.  Tracy let go of the couch at her sister’s tug.  They pulled each other off balance and ended up in a heap on the floor, but Dexter could still remember her bright, inviting eyes as she dared to share what she had discovered with her little sister.
    Just a month before she was killed, she and Tracy had discovered the drawer with the Sharpie markers.  Dexter found the girls covered in ink scribbling on their bedroom walls and carpet.  He lost his temper and both girls were crying by the time he finished yelling.  He left them each in a corner of their room when he stormed out of the room with the markers in his hand.
    He had intended to leave them in time-out for a minute, maybe two.  Five minutes later Camille walked up to him with her head