There are things attached to the wall over James’s head that look like they’re made from old plumbing parts. I can’t even guess what they’re used for. Plastic bags with coils of plastic tubing are hooked to the bed. It reminds me of the tubing the big maple syrup farms loop through the woods in spring. There’s a helium balloon floating below the ceiling that says get well. I wonder if James’s school friends sent it. I put the envelope Fiona gave me on a nightstand next to James’s bed so he’ll see it when he wakes up.

James’s room has a bathroom attached to it. The door is partly open and I can see a sink and a toilet but no shower.

I’m running out of things to look at in James’s room when Mom starts singing a song I remember from when I was little.

The barn swallow roosts

on the rafters.

The deer beds down

in the pines.

And what about you,

my child,

where do you rest

when darkness comes?

A nurse brings in more plastic tubing and I watch him move around James’s bed.

“I don’t see anything for James to drink,” I whisper.

“James can’t drink just yet. See this?” The nurse shows me a plastic cup half filled with water and what looks like a toothbrush with a pink sponge on the end. “We wet his mouth with it.”

When the nurse leaves the room, I take the plastic cup into the little windowless bathroom. I close the door behind me, pour the water down the sink drain, and quickly refill the cup with water from the canning jar in my coat pocket. When I hold it up to the mirror over the sink, I see a swirl of bright green that disappears as quickly as a green garter snake in tall grass.

I go to the opposite side of the bed from Mom and stand near James. Except for a bandage on his head, and the fact that his eyes are closed, he looks the same. Same short blond hair and same light eyebrows. The white bandage has brownish-red spots on it.

I swish the pink sponge round and round in the water in the cup. With my back to the glass wall, in case the nurse looks in, I squeeze the sponge over James’s lips. I squeeze it again and again, trying to make the water go in James’s mouth and not drip down his chin. Mom watches but doesn’t say anything. She keeps singing, holding James’s hand in hers.

The honeybee sleeps

in the flower,

the spider hangs

from its web.

And what about you,

my child,

where do you rest

when darkness comes?

When Mom stops singing, I lean over and speak in James’s ear.