“Did you sleep alright?” I asked, keeping my strokes gentle and slow.
She didn’t answer right away, but her shoulders shrugged slightly under the giant shirt, and she reached down to pull her blue backpack closer to her ankles.
“Mom,” she whispered, her voice so low I had to lean down until my cheek almost touched her shoulder. “Can we put my sleeping bag in the hall closet tonight?”
I stopped brushing and held her hair in my hand, feeling the small, cold ridge of her collarbone beneath the cotton.
“The closet is dark and full of winter coats, Emma. Why would you want to sleep in there?”
She tugged her t-shirt hem so hard the stitching at the bottom let out a tiny, sharp pop.
