We’re nearly late, and I still don’t have my things together when he asks me to to put the finger lining right-side-in, inside his glove. “Fine,” I say, putting the bag I’m carrying down, and I crouch beside him, my too-big hands awkwardly cramming into his still-small gloves. Inevitably, I am wearing wool and overheat immediately with the effort. It doesn’t help that I’m already feeling the panic of a day too filled with things: lists I’ll never make it to the bottom of, tasks unfinished from the day before. And as I am struggling beside him, asking him to try to push his hand inside his glove, his arm goes limp. I look up and see that he’s caught sight of Sprout playing…