The bell sounded, from behind the doors, the excited babble, hundreds of footsteps, teachers urging them not to run, to gather coats and bags, line up ready for collection.

Lucas ran into the playground, waving to Mom, but still engrossed in a conversation with two other six-year-olds.

A cute little fist-bump between the boys as they promised to continue their game or conversation tomorrow.

He ran up to his mum, jumping into her arms, obviously excited about something.

She gave him a hug, knowing that this public display of affection meant he was after something.

She took his bags, holding his hand (Jeez, he must want something really special, actually holding her hand in front of his friends!) as they walked to her car.

'Good day Lucas, love?'

She still couldn't bring herself to shorten his name, all intentions of calling him Luke causing pangs of loss too great to bear.

'Mom, wait til I tell you! Harry got a puppy! A real live doggy, he's called it Smiler. How cool?'

She smiled as he pronounced it 'cooooooool'. Then prepared herself for the 'can we get a pup' pleading. But Lucas carried on.

'Miss Morgan says pups are hard to look after, harderer than kids sometimes, they cry all night, chew up your best toys, and…..they poop everywhere, too!'

He found this information hilarious, as any six-year-old boy would.

'So I don't want a puppy, Mom, I want a fish, or snake, or crocodile! Tommy says they don't poop, never ever!'

'I betcha Tommy's mommy would love a big ol' gator waddling around their apartment, eating her shoes….but no pooping sounds cooooooool!'

They were still laughing as she strapped him into his seat, he struggled to reach into his pockets around the seatbelt, then, almost triumphantly, Lucas held out a note. Proper old paper, too.

'Where did you find this, Lucas?'

'A man gave it me, at playtime, says to hand it to you, only you, he smelled a bit funny, and he was a little dirty, too. Can we get a crocodile too, Mommy, please?'

Unfolding the old paper, his question was lost to her, as she read the scribbled script.

'Renée. 22.00. Tomorrow.'

Freewayriding

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