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him from thinking about it as sleep found him again.
    This time when Luke woke, it was with that familiar feeling that something was wrong, though in the abyss between sleep and complete consciousness, he couldn’t remember what. Then came the kick to his gut — not just any kick but a kick delivered by a super hero karate master wearing a ten pound spiked boot. The boot was for Carrie; the spikes were for Jake.
    If he had driven them to the airport that day, Carrie would still be alive. Jake would be getting ready for spring training, and Luke would be asleep.
    He sat up on the side of the bed and looked at the clock. 2:43 A.M. He could lie back down but it would be pointless. After this many awakenings and this many kicks to the gut, he knew the drill and he might as well get on with it. First he would go to Emma’s room and make sure she was still breathing. Then he’d make a sandwich or a bowl of cereal, eat two bites, and throw the rest away. Next, he’d flip through the TV channels, surf the net, and try to read. Then it would be time to check on Emma again and pour a glass of milk. He might even drink it.
    Eventually he would probably go back to sleep, maybe in his bed, most likely on the sofa, but never on the floor of Emma’s room, tempting as that was. More than anything, he wanted to sleep with his hand on her so he’d know if she stopped breathing, but that was just too far into the crazy zone.
    The third and final time Luke woke in less than eight hours, it was from twenty-two pounds landing on his stomach — not an emotional kick this time, but a diaper encased bottom. He opened his eyes just as small hands landed on his cheeks and a tiny nose met his.
    “Hi, Daddy.”
    “Hi, honeybee.” He turned to look at the time on the DVR player. 7:05. Damn. They were going to be late again. Mrs. Benton, Emma’s teacher, was not going to be happy. Last week, she’d taken him aside and told him Emma’s late arrivals disrupted the class and got Emma’s day off to a bad start.
    Not that Emma’s days were going that well anyway — good start or not. She was used to structure — breakfast, school, lunch, nap in her own bed, snack, playtime or some activity, dinner, downtime, bath, story, and bed. She wasn’t getting that and it made her tired and grumpy. Since his mother had left town he’d been using a hodgepodge of sitters, accepting play date offers, and taking off early. Daycare was not a good option. Emma was accustomed to quiet unhurried days and if she went straight from preschool to daycare, she’d be in sensory overload by mid-afternoon. She needed someone to get her ready for school, take her there, and pick her up. He needed someone who would do laundry, run errands, and cook dinner. He’d hired a cleaning service to come in once a week but they didn’t do the extras.
    He put his arms around her and sat up. “Time to get ready for school.”
    “No school. Gonna go ’round and ’round in your chair.” Oh, great. He’d taken her to his office last week for a few hours and she’d loved it — had been begging to go back ever since.
    “Not today.” He got up, swung her onto his shoulders, and started toward her room. “You’re going home with Beau after school, remember? You’ll have lunch there, take a nap, and then you’re going to Justin’s birthday party. I’ll pick you up from Justin’s house.” He needed to remember to call Missy Bragg and tell her the present was in Emma’s backpack.
    “I go with
you
,” Emma said. “I go in
my
car to the happy birthday.”
    “That’s not how it works. School, then party. Here, arms up.” He peeled her nightgown off. Maybe he would take her to school and come back and get himself ready for work. If he did that, she might be on time and, except in his own mind, there was no such thing as late for a judge. He was going to tell that new nanny he needed her here at 6:30 every morning so he could go for a run and be at his desk by eight. He