Wednesday is the best day of the week.

I know how that sounds, coming from a 46-year-old living for a mid-week school run.

But that's where I am. That's what's left.

Every Wednesday evening, I drive the carpool for four kids, my daughter, Ashley, and three of her friends from school.

Leia, Craig, and Manny.

I pick them up from the after-school club at half-four, and I drive them home, one by one, door-to-door, same order every week.

Leah first.

She lives on the new builder state near the retail park,

the one with the identical brick fronts and the tiny driveways.

Her mom always weighs from the kitchen window.

Leia needs dropping off at the top of the drive

because their gate sticks and she can't open it from the outside.

Then Craig. His house is down a cul-de-zac off of the burntwood road.

His mom works late on Wednesdays, so his dad answers the door, usually holding a tea towel,

looking like he's already burned something.

Craig's 10, the youngest of the group, and he talks the entire journey, about football,

Minecraft, or whatever YouTube video rewired his brain that morning.

He doesn't need encouraging. Just needs an audience.

Manny is after Craig.

Manny is quiet.

Not shy.

There's a difference.

...