They’d made it through all the Michaels, Carrie and Dan believed. They’d made it through Michael J. Fox’s comeback and Michael Vick’s arrest and Michael Douglas’s cancer, made it through the terrible summer when Michael Phelps won all those gold medals in swimming, and then the next terrible summer when Michael Jackson died on every channel for days and days. They’d dodged a bullet when the Michaels crafts chain canceled plans to open a store in their town. (That would have been hell — Dan drove by that strip mall every day on his way to work.) Once, at a library program when their daughter, Chloe, was two, Carrie had been forced to sing along to “Michael Row the Boat Ashore,” but thankfully Dan was in the bathroom and missed the whole thing; by the time he returned, Carrie was mechanically rolling her fists around to “The Wheels on the Bus.” They hadn’t bumped into a big, noisy Michael in over a year, seemed to have found their footing, and when the occasional Michael was mentioned on television, or when their waiter at Chili’s wore the vulgar name on his name tag, their world did not lurch to an awkward halt, and the piece of them that had already perished a thousand times did not perish again. They, Carrie and Dan both, had pulled through. It had taken six years and one baby girl, but they’d made it, together. They’d weathered the storm of Michael, and they were going to be OK.