For almost two weeks that summer, my nine-year-old daughter, Ellie, kept walking back into the house carrying ice cream.
Normally, that wouldn’t have meant anything.
Except I knew she hadn’t taken any money outside with her.
We live in the kind of ordinary suburban neighborhood where the streets have names like Oak, Maple, and Pine, and every kid knows which houses hand out the best candy on Halloween.
During the summer, an ice cream truck comes through a few evenings each week.
You can hear its repetitive little tune long
