And Danny sat, smiling as he listened.

Danny was quiet the rest of the week. But on Christmas Eve, as the final documents were being signed, he began to cry.

"I don't want to go with her!" he sobbed, tears spilling from his eyes onto his cheeks.

Sara was seated by Bill's desk; the battered valise holding all of Danny's worldly possessions rested by her feet. Bill glanced up and saw her stricken expression. He turned and squatted next to Danny.

"It's okay to be a little scared," he said. "Remember that talk we had? Remember what I told you about Tommy?"

"I don't care!" he said, his voice rising in the suddenly silent office. "She's bad! She's mean!"

"Come now, Danny. There's no call for that kind of—"

The boy threw his arms around Bill's neck and clung to him, trembling.

"She's going to hurt me!" he screamed. "Don't make me go! Please don't make me go! She's going to hurt me!"

Bill was shocked at the outburst. But there was no denying Danny's genuine terror. He was literally quaking with fear.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sara rise to her feet and step toward them. Her eyes were full of hurt.

"I—I don't understand," she said.

"Just some last-minute jitters," Bill told her, trying to assuage the pain he saw in her eyes. "Coupled with an overactive imagination."

"This seems to be more than just a case of simple jitters," Sara said.

Gently, Bill pushed Danny to arm's length and held him there.

"Danny, listen to me. You don't have to go anywhere you don't want to. But you must tell me about these terrible things you're saying. Where did they come from? Who told you these things?"

"No one," he said, blubbering and sniffling.

"Then how can you say them?"

"Because!"

"Because isn't good enough, Danny. Where did you get these ideas?"

"Nowhere. I just… know!"

Sara stepped forward. Slowly, hesitantly, she reached out and placed her hand on Danny's head, gently smoothing his perpetually unruly blond cowlick.

"Oh, Danny. I would never hurt you. How can you possibly think such a thing?"

Bill felt Danny stiffen at Sara's touch, then relax; saw his eyes roll upward for a heartbeat, then focus again. He stopped sobbing.

"You're going to be my little boy," Sara was saying in a soothing, almost-mesmerizing voice as she stroked his head. "And I'm going to be your mother. And together with Herb the three of us will make a wonderful family."

Danny smiled.

In that instant Bill was nearly overcome by an almost-uncontrollable urge to call the whole thing off, to wrap Danny protectively in his arms, chase the Loms from his office, and never allow them to cross the threshold of St. Francis again.

He buried the impulse. It was the father-son thing rearing its selfish, possessive head. He had to let go of this boy.

"You're not really afraid of me, are you, Danny?" Sara cooed.

He turned and looked up at her.

"No. I'm just scared of leaving here."

"Don't be afraid, Danny, my dear. It's supposed to snow tonight, which means tomorrow will be a white Christmas. Come with us and I promise you this Christmas will be utterly unforgettable."

Something in her words sent a chill across Bill's shoulders but he forced himself to let go of Danny and guide him toward Sara. As Danny's arms went around her hips and Sara's arms enfolded the boy, Bill felt his throat constrict. He turned away to hide the tears in his eyes.

I have to let go!

"I'd better take a rain check, Nick," Bill said into the phone. "It's snowing like crazy."

Nick's voice was tinny over the wire, and genuinely annoyed.

"Since when did a little white stuff ever bother you? Either you get yourself over here now or, snow or no snow, I'm coming over there and dragging you back."

"Really, Nick. I'm good where I am."

"The Quinns will be hurt if you don't show up. And besides, I don't think it's such a good idea for you to be alone on Christmas Eve—especially this Christmas Eve."

He understood and appreciated Nick's concern. He'd always spent part of Christmas with Mom and Dad. But this year…

"I'm not alone. I'm going to spend it with the boys. Which reminds me that I've got to check on them right now. I'll see you Saturday night. A Merry Christmas to you, and to the Quinns."

"All right," he said resignedly. "You win. Merry Christmas, Father Bill."

Bill hung up and walked down the hall to check on the kids. The dormitory was quiet. Excitement had filled these halls all week, rising ever higher with the decorating of the tree, reaching a fever pitch here a couple of hours ago as he'd overseen the hanging of the stockings by the old never-used fireplace in the dining hall downstairs. But all the boys were in bed now and those who weren't already asleep were trying their best to doze off. Because everybody knew that Santa didn't come until the whole house was sleeping.

Christmas. Bill's favorite time of year. And it was being around the boys that made it for him. They were so excited this time of year, especially the little ones. The bright eyes, the eager faces, the innocence of their euphoric anticipation. He wished he could bottle it like wine and decant off a little at a time during the year to get him through the times when things got low and slow.

God knew there were periods since the fire last March when he could have used a couple of bottles of the stuff. Tomorrow was a milestone of sorts, a dread marker along his personal road: the first December 25th in his life when he wouldn't be able to call his folks and wish them a Merry Christmas.

An aching emptiness expanded in his chest. He missed them. More than he'd ever thought he could or would. But he'd weather tomorrow. The boys would carry him through it.

Satisfied that everyone was asleep or very nearly so, Bill padded downstairs and began unloading the gifts from a locked pantry closet. Most of them had been donated by the local parishioners and wrapped by the sisters who taught the orphans at Our Lady of Lourdes elementary school next door. Good people one and all, pitching in to see that none of the boys went without a couple of presents on Christmas Day.

When the gifts were arranged under the tree Bill stepped back and surveyed the scene: A scraggly limbed balsam laden with a motley assortment of hand-me-down ornaments and garish blinking lights stood guard over piles of brightly wrapped boxes, each tagged with a boy's name. He smiled. Bargain-basement decor, to be sure, but the real giving spirit of Christmas was there. It looked as if Santa had risked a hernia on his trip to St. F.'s this year. Bill was beginning to feel a bit of the old Christmas excitement himself, looking forward to tomorrow morning when he'd be standing in this same spot and overseeing the frenzy of paper-tearing as the overexcited boys unwrapped their gifts with trembling hands. He could hardly wait.

He unplugged the tree lights and climbed the stairs. Halfway up he heard his office phone ringing. He ran for it. If this was Nick again—

But it wasn't. It was Danny. And he was hysterical.

"Father Bill! Father Bill!" he screeched in a high-pitched voice bursting with terror. "You gotta come get me! You gotta get me outta here!"

"Calm down, Danny," he said, keeping himself calm with an effort. Even though he knew it was just another adjustment terror, the real fear in the boy's voice was sending his adrenals into high gear. "Just calm down and talk to me."

"I can't talk! He's gonna kill me!"

"Who? Herb?"

"You gotta come get me, Father! You just gotta!"

"Where's Sara? Put her on and let me speak to her."

"No! They don't know I'm on the phone!"

"Just get Sara—"

"No! Sara's gone! There ain't no Sara! He's gonna kill me!"

"Danny, stop it!"