The kitchen was the same as the last time I’d seen it—the black-and-white linoleum tile, the chipped countertop, the stained sink; the rude yellow walls were maybe a little dirtier, a little sicklier.

The living room was completely different. The furniture here was cheaper, shabbier, than any we had ever had. Evidence of rowdy children was everywhere: marks on the walls, toys left to be stepped on and tripped over, broken vases poorly glued together, teeth marks on all the chair legs. There were burn marks in the tables, in the upholstery; the whole house was worn, too worn, depressing.

But on the mantel, above the fireplace, the woman here had arranged two candles and pictures of the children, one little ceramic frog, and a dried flower. I knew this to be sentiment, and for a moment wished that I had a mantelpiece of my own to set things of sentiment on. I gently blew the dust from them and as I did, I felt someone stir. My heart pounded in reaction. Someone’s depth of sleep had altered. The boy. I walked quickly and silently to the hallway to wait, to watch.

Within moments, the vibrations of sleep were resumed. I walked quietly down the hallway and pushed open the first bedroom door.

Blonde strands of hair, curled at the ends, scattered over a pillow. A girl child of four, maybe five, years, slept with mouth open, her lips like little moist pink petals, her breath sweet on the pillow. I touched her silken cheek with my finger. It was so warm. She was so soft and secure, worryless and safe, happy and oblivious, and suddenly my knees went weak. I was exhausted. I longed to sleep the restful sleep of the child. I leaned closer to her, to fill my nostrils with the scent of youth, just to smell her purity, and she moved her little doll-sized legs under the covers, rubbed her face with one hand, and opened her eyes.

She reacted in surprise at my face so close to hers, then she smiled, the smile of an angel, sleep still clouding her brain. I sent to her a lullaby—a sweeter one I’ve never heard—and watched as her eyelids drooped and finally sank, and the smile faded and her breathing resumed the deep regularity of child sleep. I fingered her hair for a moment, fine golden threads, then turned away. I had more to explore and little time.

The next room had been my bedroom; the door was closed tightly. I turned the knob gently and pushed it open. The floor was littered with toys and clothes; bookshelves lined all the walls. A set of iron bunkbeds lay directly ahead, the bottom bunk covered with debris, the top bunk holding a boy.