Again, my first inclination was to look away. Then instead of glancing at Spring's nakedness, I'd probably pull her underwater and have to explain to the FBI why a half-naked girl with a limp shampoo fin was floating in my tub. No thanks. I took a deep breath, grabbed the waistband of her pants and pulled. She slipped like I hoped she wouldn't and there was nowhere to grab. Her skin, still slick with shampoo and soap, disappeared in my grasp, and she momentarily slid into the shallow tub and blew bubbles out her nose. I scooped her up without a tear from her or me.

"Okay, let's try this again..."

Before I could remove the pants, Spring slipped both them and her underwear off, proving that she had been perfectly capable of doing this herself all along. Now there was a fully naked little girl in my guest tub.

(The explosive sound of my front door being battered.) "Mr. Hunter?"

"Yes, I'm Mr... "

"You're under arrest for violating the Baths for Minors Act and having a fully-naked girl standing in your guest tub."

"But... "

"No buts, Mr. Hunter."

But no one broke the door down to end my unpleasant experience. No, I wasn't that lucky.

"How do you do this?" I said, looking at Spring's face and torso. "What's dirty?"

Spring shrugged.

Knowing that many little kids get nightly baths, I knew something had to get dirty, or why all the fuss? And I was afraid that that something was what I thought it was going to be. Spring pointed to her back.

"Okay. Your back? Turn around. Where's your loofa?"

"My what?"

"Loofa? Don't you use a loofa?"

She shook her head.

"What do you use?"

She pointed to a washcloth.

"This?"

She nodded.

Easy enough. I washed her back. She turned around and I washed her chest. Of course, I attempted idle chitchat during both. "When's your birthday?"

She shrugged.

"You don't know when your birthday is?"

She shook her head.

I stuck the washcloth into an ear, also located safely above the waist, and twisted until Spring suggested it was clean by saying,"Ow." Hearing another "Ow," I switched to the other ear.

"Spring, do you know what a sheepdog is?"

She shook her head.

"I used to have a sheepdog. His name was Hemingway and he had really long hair not as long as yours, but long and he loved getting a bath. I'd say 'Bath time,' and he'd run from wherever he was and climb onto my lap. He was about 80 pounds, a lot bigger than you, and sometimes he got a little heavy. He was dirty all the time. I remember when I gave him his first bath. I told him to get in the tub and he immediately grabbed for the loofa with his teeth."

She stared.

"Which is pretty funny because you can't use a loofa on a sheepdog."

She failed to see the irony.

"Never mind."

"Did you wash..." I pointed below her waist. If Spring had decided she didn't need to wash there, I was just going to rinse her off with water from the big Yankees cup. She took the washcloth and made some passes there.

One step at a time.

Not so bad. I had made it through the tough part and drying was all downhill. A towel, a few pats, and you had a dry kid. Spring stood and even helped dry herself, but then grabbed a container of baby powder. After I had tried so hard to provide impersonal and conservative hygiene accommodations conforming to the Baths for Minors Act Spring turned around, bent over and mooned me.

"What am I supposed to do now?"

She patted a cheek.

Not wanting any more information, I grabbed the container and shot a stream of baby powder at the little target. A pleasant talcum cloud filled the bathroom and I no longer saw any skin on her bottom just white residue.

"Bedtime."

"Watch your head," she shouted, as she ran naked into the bedroom.

"Ha, ha. Funny girl."

I'm not sure if all children needed a routine, but it sounded like a pretty safe bet if I was ever to get Spring on a healing course. If I stayed with her routine, perhaps I could make her feel better and help her relax.

Spring pulled the sheet to her chin when I entered the bedroom, her eyes bunched tight and she began to fakesnore with a smile. This was the most animated I'd seen her since Diane had died. I didn't kid myself into thinking that she was recovering, but it was still encouraging.

"Spring," I said, poking her in the ribs. Looking like Diane, she pursed her lips then continued her fake-snoring. "I have special skills and I know you're awake."

She shook her head.

"Yes, you are."

She shook her head again.

"All right, then I guess I'll have to go without reading a book tonight."

"Wait!"

"Oh, you are awake."

She nodded and removed a book from under the covers.

"Harold and the Purple Crayon, my favorite," I said. Spring enjoyed it, too. And after two false starts with me refusing to "do the voices," I stood and performed for her. I did the best I could to hold the book while acting out the scenes, but it wasn't the same. Usually, Diane read, while I did the bad pantomime. I enjoyed playing Harold. He was my hero. With that crayon, he could draw his way into and out of any problem.

About halfway into the book, Spring became more interested in where Harold's purple crayon would lead him, although she must have heard the story 20 times in the last month. When we got to the part where Harold made the pies and the animals to eat the leftovers, she slid her arms out from beneath the sheet. I could tell that she wasn't wearing a pajama top, which meant that there was a better than even chance that she wasn't wearing bottoms, either.

(The explosive sound of my front door being battered.)

"Mr. Hunter?"

"Yes, I'm Mr... "

"You're under arrest for failing to provide pajamas to a little girl at bedtime."

"But... "

"No buts, Mr. Hunter."

When Spring woke me with her screaming, I didn't know the time or where I was. I heard a high voice crying and found myself running toward her new yellow room.

"Mommy!"

"Spring! It's me, Dylan. You're all right." I sat next to her and leaned against the headboard.

"Mommy?"

"It's me, D."

"... D...?" she settled into her pillow. I could tell she was shaking and that she was accustomed to awaking from nightmares in the comfortable arms of her mother.

"... D?" She rolled over and grabbed onto my waist. I touched her shoulder and could feel her small body trembling.

"Is she here? Mommy?"

"Remember, she's in the picture," I clicked on the table lamp, "and inside you?"

Spring touched her chest.

"Yes."

"Do you feel her?"

"Yes."

Then I ran out of things to do or say. I had used my complete arsenal of hackneyed attempts at consolation with that "your mommy is in the picture," and "your mommy is inside" business. Hopefully, it felt less empty and trivial to Spring than it did to me. She squeezed me. She wasn't looking at Diane's picture or touching her heart anymore. She was just squeezing me. As she held me, I looked at Diane's picture, feeling as though I was the one who was trembling and needed to be held. I put my arm around her and pressed her head of long, black hair into my chest.

As I did, I realized for the first time how much I needed Spring there. From practically the moment I had picked her up at the daycare center after Diane died, I had been transferring my sorrow into concern about her. But the sorrow hadn't gone anywhere and I hadn't let anyone help me address it. And now I was finding consolation in the arms of a little girl. And it was more than I ever could have hoped for.

"Spring, do you want to get something to eat?" I said after a while, feeling stronger and even a little hungry.

She shook her head and said something into my chest. I presumed it was "no."

She was falling asleep. It didn't look very comfortable, but it had to be better than her nightmares. It was still dark outside, but I didn't know what time it was. There was no clock in Spring's room. Even with my arm going numb, I stayed right where I was.

Knock, knock.

Spring looked at the door, which I had unlocked and left cracked, and then to me, as if I hadn't heard the clamor.

I winked at Spring. "Who's there?"

"Itsy Bitsy."

"Come on in."

It was Billie. "I can't get that song out of my head, thank you very much."

"It grows on you. Or if you really want to get rid of it, think of any Rhianna song. That should get rid of it." I put my hand on Spring't shoulder. "Spring, do you remember Itsy?"

"Call me Bitsy."

Spring frowned and grabbed onto my leg.

"Guess she remembers the grape juice incident," I said.

Billie gestured, nonchalantly. "I'm over that." She set a bag on the countertop. "What's a little grape juice amongst friends? Hi, Spring."