Page 29 of Cinder
“Hook,” I remind her.
She sighs dramatically and moves it six inches to the left, which is apparently compliance.
Apple slices are declared the preferred after-dinner snack of choice, and I prepare them without complaint. She eats exactly three bites, tells me about penguins again, and then remembers she needs to show me another drawing she created.
By the time she’s in her pink pajamas and curled up on the couch, Dr. Dahlia Jenkins is on the screen, explaining Antarctic ice shelves in bright, enthusiastic tones.
I sit beside her with an arm along the back of the couch, watching Elle more than the television. On the screen, two penguins shuffle closer together against the wind, and Elle leans into me without thinking about it, her soft warmth sinking through my shirt. Gus stretches out across my feet, one ear flicking every time a penguin squawks through the TV.
Halfway through the episode, she looks up suddenly. “Daddy?”
“Mmm?”
“Mommy and daddy penguins take turns with the egg, right?”
“Yeah.”
She nods, still watching the screen. “So the egg isn’t left alone.”
“Nope.”
There’s another beat of silence.
“Do they both stay?”
There it is.
“Sometimes,” I say carefully.
She watches the screen for another few seconds. “What if one of them doesn’t come back?”
I swallow. “Then the one that stays will keep the egg warm.”
Her cheek presses harder into my side as she shifts closer, and my arm moves a fraction, curling around her.
“You always stay,” she says matter-of-factly.
My throat feels tight. “I always stay.”
She nods, seemingly satisfied with that, then focuses back on the screen as Dr. Dahlia starts talking about blizzards. I don’t move my arm.
Twenty minutes later, she’s yawning hard but pretending she isn’t.
Bedtime is quick. A story, then her nightlight adjusted.
“I love you to Pluto,” she says into her pillow as I crouch down beside her bed.
I brush her hair off her face and kiss her forehead.
“I love you to Pluto and all the way back.”
Gus pads in, rests his chin briefly on the edge of her mattress, then circles twice before settling at the foot of her bed.
When she’s finally still, and her breathing evens out, I stand there longer than I need to. Then I click on her white noise, check the nightlight near the dresser, and pull the door closed until the latch catches.
I hate not being able to hear her as easily, but I know exactly how much time a closed door can buy.
In the kitchen, I reheat my own dinner and accidentally leave it on the counter long enough for it to cool again. I fold a bunch of purple and yellow penguin socks from the laundry basket, then check the calendar on the fridge. The school term date is circled in red. It’s starting a little later than usual, thanks to the snowstorms we’ve had, but it’s still coming up faster than I’d like.
