I lay back down. My pillow, damp from perspiration, felt cool despite the heated potbelly stove within reach.

Nine days had passed since the stairwell rush, and each night left me the same: awakened by terror, drenched in fear. Sometimes I was trapped in a casket, shoveled dirt drumming the lid as I futilely clawed and screamed. Other times I was back on those steps, either submerged in bodies—occasionally just limbs—or clambering on my own, unable to find a door as the space shrank around me.

As usual, it would take time to fall back asleep. Likely hours, if at all.

You’re home, I insisted. You’re safe.

Still, nighttime had become an enemy, as much for its smothering darkness as its amplification of sounds. There were noises from tenants through wafer-thin walls; creaks from the building, like aging bones; hail and icy snowflakes whipping at the window. I’d listen to them all while lying in the main room, where I had dragged my mattress into a corner to sleep.

In winters past, I’d moved here merely for the stove’s warmth. But as of late, the small bedroom I shared with Papa felt too confined with a lone door for escape. A door under which now emitted a flicker, along with gravelly snoring.

Papa was back from the café—a grand relief! I’d come to dread his absence, after dusk most of all. You are big girl, he’d reminded me when I asked him to stay. He wasn’t wrong.

I’d always been one to busy myself and wander about on my own. Papa claimed it ran in our blood. Vos meaning fox, my surname said I was fated to be inquisitive and friendly yet sly and elusive, a solitary creature not meant for a pack. And like the Arctic fox, whose fur changes color with the seasons, I was adept at fading into the background.

In town, I would read borrowed books or observe passersby, fascinated by the stories they divulged without even knowing. At parks or the shore or places like Torch Lake, existing in my own bubble, I’d create rubbings of leaves, petals, and shells, capturing the shapes and veins that made them unique.

These days, I preferred the safe predictability of home, ideally sharing Papa’s company, like now.

His bedside candle, I thought. If aware, he’d want it snuffed out.

Clutching onto the excuse, I stood and cocooned myself in my quilt. Double layers of threadbare socks would fend off some of the cold but not all. On tiptoes, I padded across the worn floorboards, as Papa hated to be woken abruptly.