Eleanor Morgan

The neighborhood library, a little past ten in the morning. At the long table by the window, Grandma Eleanor Morgan sits side by side with her husband. He turns the pages of his newspaper, and in the seat beside her, her granddaughter is once again absorbed in a coloring book, crayon in hand. The yellow crayon has strayed far outside the lines, but instead of calling it wrong, the grandmother smiles and says how pretty it is. Then the granddaughter knocks over the crayon box, and a few roll all the way across the floor toward the counter. Careful not to disturb the rustle of her husband's newspaper, the grandmother quietly pushes back her chair, stands, and walks over to the counter holding her granddaughter's hand. Besides the crayons, she's carrying something wrapped in foil.