But he was gone again.

I turned to Mrs. Trent, staring at me, her green eyes wide with fear. She’d heard Ezra too. I could tell by her expression. She breathed in and out so rapidly.

Mrs. Trent motioned me over. She reached out and took my hand.

“Can I get you something?” I asked.

“Sit, please,” she said.

I wiped her forehead with a wet cloth. Her cheeks burned red and her eyes glistened. She shut her lids and shuddered.

“His father spoke too,” she said, gripping my arm. “Once. And then he died.”

Eight

From one day to the next Ezra never stirred. Not once. He remained still, silent, unchanging. But he didn’t die.

I read to him, wet his lips with a cloth. I don’t think Ezra knew I was there. I don’t think he knew anything.

The rain continued to fall. Mr. Sobel, the science teacher, monitored it. Mrs. Haskins monitored it. Gran monitored it. She found traces of radioactivity sometimes, but always it was within a normal range.

Nearly bare trees brushed against a low, dark sky. Brittle leaves clung, quaking in the wind.

I sat with Ezra and Mrs. Trent. Even though Ezra showed no sign of hearing me, I told him about my classes. Softly I sang him the songs from chorus. I’d done all these things with Gramp, too, trying to keep him from leaving.

Once, I thought Ezra’s hand moved as I sang “Tender Shepherd”—a song from our Christmas concert. I stared at his fingers, concentrating all my will into making them move again. They didn’t.

I told Ezra every dumb joke I could remember hearing at school. Really dumb jokes. I never told jokes. I wasn’t any good at it. Besides, I didn’t think these jokes were very funny. Mrs. Trent didn’t think they were funny either. If she understood them, she never laughed. But I told jokes just the same. And when I ran out of jokes I just sat there, looking around the room, remembering.

Gran’s dusty cookie tins sat stacked in the corner beside the dresser, against the green-and-gold striped wallpaper. Gran used to bake like crazy—not just bread. I remember loving this room then. I’d sleep in it sometimes. There was a great big crib, just for me, right under the window. I could see it in my mind. It always felt warm and welcoming in this room.

At Christmastime those tins would fill with cookies, crisp sugar cookies with sprinkles on top, powdery cookies that left a sweet white dust on my fingertips, and my favorite ones—the round butter cookies with the chocolate kiss in the top. My father and I would sneak back here and raid the cookie tins while Mama and Gran and Gramp visited. When my mother would come down the hall, she’d catch us with our mouths full. She’d scold my father, then eat a cookie herself. I don’t know why I remembered that, sitting with Ezra. It happened so long ago. Back before my father left, before my mother left. People always leaving.