“Why, hello, Pearl,” she says. “How are you?”

I can feel you answering, though your body doesn’t move besides the very occasional blinking of your eyes, the flutter of your pulse at the base of your neck, the uneven breaths that sometimes emerge with a gentle shudder.

“I guess I’ll see you tonight,” she says to Pearl, but she’s also saying it to me.

She’s been coming over a few nights each week, mostly to read to you. When John puts you to bed, Ms. Pena and I sit at the table and drink decaf coffee, talking about humdrum things like each of her students, and I tell her another story about my growing-up years or something trivial about your grandmother. One night last week she reached across the table and took my hand, and we sat there in a silence so still I could hear a cat rummaging through the trash in the alley outside.

I clear my throat, but words won’t come, so I give her an uneven smile.

John laughs to himself and elbows me good-naturedly. “Say hi to your girlfriend, Dad.”

I glare at him but can’t help grinning.

We turn the corner and go into the small library. The children sit there waiting, chatting loudly, and the librarian, a rather large Ms. Battle, claps her hand three times and counts one-two-three-four-five. The children grow magically silent, and we park you at the front by the windows, where you can sit in the sunshine and hear the story.

Today we’re starting a new book, one you know well. But I thought the schoolchildren might enjoy it. The chapters are short, and the main character is mischievous.

“This is The Light Princess,” I say, choking up a bit because I could just as easily be talking about you, sitting there by the windows, bathed by the sun. “By George MacDonald.”

I take a deep breath, and when I try to read, my voice wavers. I shake my head. Movement at the corner of my eye catches my attention. I look over, and Ms. Pena has settled into place at the door beside John. The look on my son’s face is no different from the looks on the faces of so many of the children: eager, waiting, perhaps hopeful that this is the story that will change his life.

I start reading.

Once upon a time, so long ago that I have quite forgotten the date, there lived a king and queen who had no children.

And the king said to himself, “All the queens of my acquaintance have children, some three, some seven, and some as many as twelve; and my queen has not one. I feel ill-used.” So he made up his mind to be cross with his wife about it. But she bore it all like a good patient queen as she was. Then the king grew very cross indeed. But the queen pretended to take it all as a joke, and a very good one too.