We are mid-fight scene with swords and slashes and PG-rated wounds, when behind a row of young moms wrestling their toddlers, I see him—broad shoulders, crooked nose, raised brows, and a hint of amusement at my tone, as the tiny mice make their way in the story to save Mikey. Fletcher’s arms cross over the wide expanse of his chest, shoulder leaning against the column beside him. The golden glow of my fairy lights makes it look like he’s lit from within, an amber incandescence on his scruffy face. His height allows him to easily gaze over all the other standing adults, and for some reason, my
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