I slept a fitful sleep. I did not dream. Now I stand here, outside your room. I should wake you. I wonder if Tom will still want to give you those swimming lessons, or perhaps, after the way I grilled him last night, if he might possibly come out and ask us to leave. And of course there’s the rug, which we still haven’t told him about.

The knot is throbbing. I can no longer sleep on that side of my head, and there is an ache that spreads all the way down behind my ear, halfway to my shoulder. I’ve had no nausea recently, so hopefully that was a passing thing. It feels very real this morning: the end. What will I do if Tom sends us away?

I ease the door open to your room and immediately sense a change. The air smells like the outside—like the woods, like the swiftly arriving fall—and it’s much colder than the rest of the house. I can hear the morning breeze in the trees through the wide-open window. I walk past the rolled-up carpet, all the way across the room, and gaze at the forest. I even peek my head out and glance to the right, toward the lake.

It is a gorgeous, crisp fall morning. Geese fly overhead in a lopsided V, honking, and the sunlight hits the water at a shallow angle. I slide the window closed, and I notice leaves and dirt on the hardwood floors we cleaned the day before. They lead in a trail all the way across the room, to you.

“Pearl,” I say, turning and standing over your bed. “Pearl.”

You are so deep in sleep that you don’t even move. I reach down and pull the comforter back, gently hold your shoulder, and give you a subtle shake. Your nightgown is damp, as though you had a fever that broke in the night. But the small patch of your nightgown that I can see has dirt smudges on it, and there are leaves in your hair.

“Pearl, wake up,” I say, sounding stern. What have you been doing?

You moan and roll away from me, licking your lips.

“Pearl. Where were you?” I ask.

You take a deep breath, roll back to face me, and smile. “Good morning, Grampy.”

“Pearl, your window was open.”

“It was?”

“And there’s dirt on the floor and leaves in your hair. Where have you been?”

A flash of memory moves across your face. “I thought it was a dream,” you whisper.

“What was a dream?”

“She came again last night.” You look at me, clearly nervous at what my reaction will be.

“Who?”

“The woman. The one who told me to cut squares in the carpet.”

I sit down on the edge of the bed and take you in. You’re so little under the covers, your face so innocent.

“Pearl,” I begin, not knowing what to say after that.

“It’s not my fault, Grampy. I can’t stop her from coming.”