Peace on this day, he said, was "just having the kids come in the bed with you in the morning. ... That's when it's all kind of normal."

"It's weird because you'll run into things that will remind you of before the tragedy happened and it feels like a normal day," he said. "And then, you'll run into things that remind you of what happened."

Members of the news media are everywhere, as are police officers. The deli provided a respite from the madness.

The tentacles of what happened touch everyone in the community. Jacobs' children don't attend Sandy Hook, but they're still directly affected.

One of his boys is a close friend of Jack Pinto's brother. His 7-year-old daughter had dance class with three of the girls who were killed. He and his wife are part of a dinner club with parents of another slain child.

Lauren Rousseau was teaching at Sandy Hook on Friday when she was killed. She'd also been a substitute at the Hawley School, which three of Jacobs' children attend.

Two of his children opted to stay home from Monday's services. "We're kind of taking it individually with each kid.

"As you can imagine, there's a lot of tears."

And hugs.

Chaplains Ray and Suzanne Thompson came up from New York City, where they had been helping people struggling with the aftermath of Superstorm Sandy. The Thompsons are members of the Billy Graham Rapid Response Team and have helped at other mass shootings, including the attempted killing of Rep. Gabby Giffords near Tucson, Arizona.

They stopped in the deli for a quick bite to eat before hitting the pavement.

"The whole town is just heartbroken," said Suzanne Thompson, a retired nurse from Southern California. "As you walk the streets, people are crying and hurt and sometimes they might feel alone. And it's nice to have someone come up alongside you and cry with you and hear your story and pray with you."

The most chilling stories, she said, are from parents and teachers who were at the Sandy Hook school last Friday.

"What stands out in my mind," she said, "is just the impact that it's had on them and what they remember: the noises and the sounds and the smells. Those things are going to be burned in their minds."

The husband-and-wife team look for signs of distress. They talk with residents about the symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder -- inability to sleep, flashbacks, loss of appetite, potential suicidal tendencies. They refer some to counseling and follow up with people to see how they're coping.

At the deli, one resident looked at the woman behind the counter as he paid for his food. "My kids are having trouble sleeping at night," he told her.

She handed him three lollipops.

A few blocks down Main Street, inside the town library, the sniffling voice of a grieving man could be heard coming from the stacks. "It's just ... God!" he screeched.

Downstairs, in the children's section, Alana Bennison wept behind her desk. She's been the children's librarian for 15 years. She knew nearly every child killed.

She's surrounded by thousands of books. But no amount of words, no amount of reading material, could prepare a town for such horror.