INTERVIEW WITH ALEX DALLAS
The week passed with the specific slowness of a week that contains something significant at the end of it.
I worked. I collected Liam from school. I made dinner. I sat at the kitchen table in the evenings, and I didn't think about Thursday by thinking about it constantly in the managed low volume I'd perfected over six years.
Liam, who noticed most things, noticed something.
Wednesday evening at dinner, he looked at me across the table.
"Mama sad?" he said.
"No," I said. "Not sad."
He looked at me.
"Different," he said.
I looked at him — at his serious five-year-old face under the cap, at the gray eyes that saw considerably more than most people expected them to.
"I have something important tomorrow," I said.
He considered this.
"Like school?" he said
