1

      “HEY, DYLAN, GRAB the fire hose,” Max Varo joked as the homemade chocolate cake laden with thirty-five burning candles made its way into the Shawnigan family rec room. The cake wobbled slightly in June Shawnigan’s hands as she broke into a soprano rendition of “Happy Birthday to You.” The fifty or so people singing along were assorted friends and family of Adam Shawnigan, June’s baby, thirty-five today.

      She suspected his surprise party hadn’t been a surprise for more than a nanosecond—he was a detective, after all—but he was putting on a good face for the celebration.

      It was a rugged, handsome face, too, if she did say so herself. She wasn’t the only one who noticed. As she looked around, June could see the expressions on some of the younger women’s faces. Adam was, as more than one young woman had informed her, a major hottie. So why was her thirty-five-year-old major-hottie son still single?

      When he’d finished blowing out the candles, and she’d passed slices of cake and forks, she called for quiet and motioned to her husband, Dennis, to dim the lights and push Play.

      “No. For the love of God, no,” moaned Adam as the big-screen TV came to life. Oh, she’d surprised him now, she thought with satisfaction as the home movie she’d taken on her first camcorder thirty years ago filled the screen.

      Three little boys sat at the picnic table in June’s backyard, all chubby faces and mustard-stained mouths, chomping through hot dogs and potato chips. She must have guessed they’d stay still for at least another minute or two, so she’d grabbed her new camcorder, pushed Record. Of course, at five years old, the three were used to being followed around by eager parents with cameras and barely batted an eye.

      She said, “Adam, how old are you today?”

      “I’m five,” he said, looking at the camera as though a not-very-bright woman were behind it.

      “What do you want to be when you grow up?” she asked.

      “I’m going to be a police officer,” he said, dipping his hot dog into a pool of ketchup and stuffing it into his mouth. Even then he’d had big blue eyes that were so like his father’s. Then, his mouth full, he mumbled, “Like my dad.”

      “Aw,” said a chorus of voices in the living room.

      “How about you, Dylan?” she asked the freckle-faced kid next to her son, as if his answer weren’t perched on his head.

      He put his hand on the red plastic firefighter’s helmet he’d barely taken off in a year and said, “A fireman.” Dylan was the tallest of the three boys and the most daring. It had come as no surprise to June when he’d been cited for bravery four years ago for rushing into a burning building as it collapsed to save a young woman’s life.

      “Amazing,” a voice from the crowd piped up. “Who gets their career right at five?”

      “What about you, Max?” she asked the smallest of the three boys. Max Varo at five was very much like Max Varo at thirty-five. He had dark South American good looks and a neatly buttoned shirt that showed