Short story by Kate DiCamillo — posted yesterday on Facebook

— by Kate DiCamillo

I was standing in the grocery store checkout line, and a small boy walked past me—once, twice, three times.
When he came back the fourth time, he was holding his mother’s hand.
“That’s her,” he said.
He pointed at me.
“Don’t point, honey,” said his mother.
And then to me she said, “My son’s class is reading The Tale of Despereaux.  He thinks that you’re the author of that book.”
“I’m the writer!” I said.
“Oh,” she said.  “How lovely.  Is it okay if he asks you a question?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
“Go ahead, honey,” she said to the boy.
This child looked up at me and said, “What I want to know is will it be okay?  Will the mouse be okay?”
“Yes,” I told him.
“Oh,” he said.  “Good.  Now I can relax my heart.”
“Yes,” I said again.   “You can.”
Oh, his heart!
Oh, my heart!
Oh, all our hearts!