I stepped onto our back porch.
Seven children stood in a perfectly straight line across their backyard.
The oldest girl stood first.
Beside her were two boys, then another girl, another boy, another little girl, and finally the smallest child, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.
David stood in front of them holding a clipboard.
He looked to be in his early 40s, tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair streaked with gray.
He didn’t raise his voice.
He didn’t have to.
He walked slowly down the line, inspecting muddy sneakers, checking fingernails, adjusting one child’s crooked collar.
Then he made a mark on his clipboard.
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