Page 69 of Joker

Again.

He straightens, mutters something about coffee, and keeps moving toward the kitchen like he didn’t just casually alter the trajectory of my daughter’s dinosaur art forever.

Lexi watches him go. Then looks at me and says, “He funny.”

I don’t know what to do with the fact that I agree. So I say, “A little.”

She squints at me like I’ve insulted her judgment. Then she goes back to adding what appear to be combat-level fangs to her dinosaur.

It keeps happening after that.

In pieces. Moments. Tiny, impossible-to-ignore shifts that start stacking on top of each other until I can’t pretend they’re isolated anymore.

At lunch, she asks if Joker likes grilled cheese.

Later, while Emma is helping Amy and Casey settle some argument about markers and a notebook, Lexi walks up to me with Bunny tucked under one arm and a toy truck in her other hand and asks, “Can Joker fix this?”

I take the truck and turn it over. One wheel is crooked.

“Maybe,” I say.

“Can you ask him?”

I stare at her for a second too long. “Why me?”

She shrugs like that should be obvious. “Because.”

Excellent. Very useful.

That afternoon, when Joker comes in through the side door smelling like sunshine and motor oil and whatever outside work he’s been doing with the others, Lexi spots him from halfway across the room and trots straight over with the truck clutched in both hands.

No hesitation. No nerves. No fear. Just tiny determined steps and complete confidence.

“Joker,” she says, holding up the truck. “It’s broken.”

He stops and looks down at the toy like she just informed him of a national emergency. “That’s serious.”

“It won’t roll.”

He crouches immediately and takes the truck from her hands. “Let’s see.”

I’m standing near the kitchen doorway watching all of this happen like I’m somehow not involved, which is ridiculous because I amveryinvolved in the way my entire nervous system is currently trying to process the sight in front of me.

Because Joker should not look this natural kneeling on the floor in his cut, giant hands carefully turning over a tiny red toy truck while my daughter watches him like he personally hangs the moon. And yet.

Here we are.

He pops the wheel back into place in less than thirty seconds, tests it once across the floor, then hands it back to her.

Lexi’s face transforms like he just rebuilt the thing from spare parts and prayer. “You fixed it!”

“I’m talented.”

She nods like this is a deeply established fact. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

Then, because apparently the universe enjoys testing me, she says, “Can you do my zipper too?”