Everett entered the room and sat on the edge of Shawna’s bed. I watched through the mesh of my eyelashes, not wanting him to know I was still awake. His hand hovered above the subtle curve of her hip, moved down toward her feet, and then back upward, as if he were tracing her form in the air. He leaned in and I heard him inhale deeply. His fingers touched her hair ever so lightly.

He pulled her blanket up and smoothed it over her shoulders. I saw her eyelids squeeze tight then, though she did not stir. Lines formed across her forehead. His hands moved out of view, disappearing as he straightened the four corners of the blanket that had been perfectly in place before he entered the room.

Shawna let out a soft whimper and he hushed her. My muscles had turned to stone. Was he hurting her or soothing her? I felt stupid not to know the difference, to feel uncertain about something as important as this.

Shawna’s eyes opened for a flash, the single beat of a bird’s wings. They closed again, a flight stymied, before I could even tell if she’d seen me. I closed my eyes too, as Faheem did when he played hide-and-seek.

But I didn’t feel like a child. I felt like a coward.

Shawna did not scream. She did not cry. She did not kick or bite or utter a single word of protest. Maybe I’d been waiting for her to do something to make me certain. My head spun.

In the morning, Shawna avoided my eyes and I avoided hers. She spoke brightly, but her voice quavered like a plucked string. As she pulled her bedsheets over her mattress, arranging the pillow and quilt so evenly that it seemed impossible a body, much less two, had ever rested on it, she filled the silence with chatter about the beehive they had once found under the rafters. She picked out clothes from a dresser drawer and held them close to her chest as she walked to the bathroom.

“You better wash and dress too,” Shawna said. “It’s Sunday and Miss Janet likes to go to church early. I’m to get breakfast ready for everyone by seven-thirty. If you want to help, you can.”

Adults shake their heads and shine flashlights into dark corners when children insist that there’s a monster lurking in the closet. But irrational fears are a training ground. That drop in the stomach, that quickening of the pulse, those prickling bumps on the skin—all are electrical impulses that teach a child to recognize peril. They stop short of teaching the child to run.

I followed Shawna’s lead in the kitchen. She cracked eggs into a bowl and showed me where the plates were kept. Janet came down the stairs, wearing a pale green dress with a dark green vine print.

“Good morning, Miss Janet,” Shawna said.