It is this responsibility, this power she wields, that Sylvia can hardly bear: she is, in every practical sense, all they have. She is the boundless shadow looming over them. They rest fitfully inside it now, her giant darkening the crown molding, blown up the wall behind the headboard. They are so tiny—their sweaty hair plastered to their scalps, their quick, illuminated breathing. Her heart wells with a sorrowful, guilty love, a tart hurt she can taste, this grief for all she lacks. There is no one to hear them, no one to come to their aid; there is no sleep, no father, no phone, no rescue.

*   *   *

Morning flares blue, then copper, then white, like the flame of a candle. Light arcs unmitigated across space, through the bald windows and over the blank walls of Sylvia’s bedroom, shadow to shadow, as the day languidly expands and passes. The children are sick, are weepy, are listless, are fussy, are bored. Sylvia misses her piano. She sings to them, hums her tone-deaf lullabies, finger plays the German singsongs of her childhood. The mesmeric, plaintive Lorelei coax naps from their rock on the Rhine. “‘Help me! Help me! Help me!’ he cried…” jump Sylvia’s two fingers, slim rabbit ears chased by a huntsman over the blanket. She guesses at what might comfort and amuse: cool applesauce. Soupspoonfuls of rosehip syrup, tangy and sweet. Mugs of diluted blackcurrant juice that she’s warmed on the stove, another of her grandmother’s remedies, good for the tummy. Dry toast cut into animal shapes with cookie cutters. Storybooks no one has the patience for.