Tima was through the playground gate and running. Not fast — she was never as fast as Eira, never had been, the chILDS made sure of that, the condition that sat in her chest like a guest who wouldn't leave, the thing that made her breathe a little harder on hills and sit out of running games and move through the world at a pace that was hers and not the pace the world preferred — but running, arms out, Hoppy bouncing in one hand, the smile so wide it rearranged her entire face.

They collided. Not a hug — a collision, the full-body impact of two small people who have been apart for days and whose bodies have not yet learned that greetings can be conducted at lower velocities. They went down in a tangle of limbs and curls and Hoppy and the sound of laughter that was so pure, so unself-conscious, so entirely the sound of joy that Papa, standing by the bench with his coffee, felt something shift in his chest that he did not name because naming it would have diminished it.

Peter appeared from the driver's side. He was carrying bags — plural, because Peter's definition of a picnic was closer to a military operation than a meal, the kind of preparation that involved multiple containers, a blanket, a thermos, backup sandwiches, apples, crisps, biscuits, and the implicit understanding that no one under his care would go hungry while there was breath in his body and bread in the boot.

"Morning," Peter said, setting the bags on the bench. He looked at Papa. The look was the look — the one that had been there since Wales, since the cottage, since the first morning Peter had watched Papa hold Tima and understood that some men are built for fatherhood the way some rivers are built for valleys. The look that said: you're doing alright, lad. The look that never needed to be spoken because Peter's face said it louder than words.

"Morning. How was the drive?"

"Eira sang. The entire way. One song. Repeated. Seventeen times."

"Which song?"

"I genuinely don't know. It may not be a song. It may be an incantation. Steph would know."

Papa grinned. Eira was sitting in the sandbox now, having relocated the entire operation within thirty seconds of arrival, and was explaining to Tima — with the patient authority of a child two years her senior — that the sandcastle needed a moat, and the moat needed water, and the water needed to come from somewhere, and where was the tap?

"There's no tap, Eira."

"Then we need to FIND water."

Peter rubbed his face with both hands, the gesture of a man who has been awake since five-thirty and whose day is only just beginning. "Shall we walk, then? Before she dismantles the playground."