Jack
Iwas up before five. No alarm, just the dark and the unfamiliar sounds of the house and the weight of a mind that had given up on sleep hours ago.
Cassie's house. Clear Creek. Right.
I got up.
The hallway was quiet. Lily's door still closed, a thin strip of grey light under it from the window inside. I stood there a second, listening, then went downstairs.
The kitchen was cold. I found the thermostat in the hall and turned it up. I waited for the click of the relay, the low thrum of the furnace kicking in somewhere beneath the floorboards. It was a sound I knew, at least—one thing in this house that worked on logic. I stood in front of it for a moment like that would help, then went back to figure out breakfast.
The fridge was mostly what I'd left it—eggs, half a block of cheese, a carton of orange juice I'd picked up at the gas station last night because it seemed like the kind of thing a kid should have. I didn't know if she liked orange juice. I didn't know what she liked. I stood there with the fridge open longer than necessary, then closed it and checked the cupboards.
Cereal. Three boxes, which told me something about Cassie—she'd always bought in threes, some habit from growing up with not enough. I lined them up on the counter and looked at them. One had a cartoon bear on the front. That seemed like a reasonable guess.
I heard her on the stairs before I saw her. Small, careful footsteps, one at a time. She appeared in the kitchen doorway in pajamas, hair flattened on one side, the rabbit hanging from her hand by one ear. She looked at me. I looked at her.
"Morning," I said.
"Morning." She looked at the cereal boxes on the counter and didn't say anything.
I picked the one with the bear and found a bowl and a spoon. I poured a healthy heap and set it in front of her. She looked at it for a moment, then picked up the spoon and moved the dry cereal around without eating it.
"Milk?"
She nodded.
I poured it, watching the level rise just to the rim of the bowl. She took one small mouthful, then another, then put the spoon down and sat there with her hands in her lap.
I made coffee and stood at the counter, trying to think about what came next. The list was upstairs, two pages of it now—everything I’d written down at midnight and the things I’d thought of after. School was on there; I’d need to call, let them know she wouldn’t be in, and find out what I needed to provide. A death certificate, probably. Or at least the police report. I wasn't sure. The attorney had called yesterday about the guardianship timeline, something I’d need to follow up on before the week was out.
Lily pushed the bowl away. It was still half full, the bears turning to mush in the milk.
"Not hungry?"
She shook her head.
I looked at the bowl. I didn't know if that was normal. I didn't know what normal looked like for her on a regular Tuesday, let alone this one. I left it.
"Do you want to get dressed?" I said. "We could go somewhere. Later. If you want."
She considered this with the seriousness she seemed to apply to most things. "The park?"
"Sure," I said. "The park."
She nodded and slid off the chair and went back upstairs, the rabbit trailing behind her.
I stood in the kitchen and drank my coffee and looked at the coloring book on the table. Still open to the same page. The half-finished garden, the scattered crayons. I hadn't touched it. I wasn't going to.
From upstairs came the sound of drawers opening and closing, small footsteps back and forth—the clatter and scuff of a child getting herself ready. It went on for a while. I topped up my coffee and waited.
When she came back down she was wearing a red sweater and leggings that didn't quite match, with one shoe on and one in her hand. She sat down on the bottom stair and worked at the laces with a frown of concentration that was so completely Cassie that I had to look away for a second.
"You need a hand?"
"I've got it," she said.
She did, eventually.