The stillness of the house pulsed like a headache. Even though Daddy said it was good when Grandma slept, I preferred the coughing. At least, then, I knew she was alive.

I set my book on the coffee table in the living room and tiptoed down the hall to her room. I paused at the open doorway and watched the mound of blankets on her bed inhale and exhale.

“Whew!” I said aloud, leaning against the doorframe. 

I gripped the door handle and pulled it toward me. Daddy always said to let her rest, to never wake her up.

“Love you,” I whispered. 

Grandma didn’t like the door closed all the way, though, so I left it just open enough for a thin line of hall light to leak in. I twisted in my socked feet and crept into the bedroom across from Grandma’s. It was mine and Toby’s room. We started sharing when Grandma moved in eight months ago. You know, when Mom…

Anyway, I usually played with Toby until Daddy got home from the library, where he worked. But I sometimes could get Toby to take an afternoon nap. Today, it took me twenty minutes of singing, “Twinkle, twinkle, little star…” before Toby lay down, close his eyes, and suck his thumb, his breathing steady and slow. Singing was the best way to quiet him. Daddy taught me.