Sophia stood in the center of the living room, her small backpack still on her shoulders, looking lost. “Are you hungry?” Jonathan asked, realizing he had no idea what four-year-olds ate. His refrigerator contained leftover Thai food, some craft beer, and a questionable container of yogurt. Sophia shook her head. I’m sleepy, but I don’t have my bed.
We’ll figure something out. Come on. He led her to his guest room, which was decorated in stark whites and grays, clearly meant for adult visitors who never came. Sophia looked at the massive bed, then back at Jonathan. “It’s too big,” she said simply. “I’ll get lost.” Jonathan thought for a moment, then gathered pillows and blankets from a closet.
On the floor beside the bed, he built a kind of nest, a smaller, cozier space. Sophia crawled into it gratefully. “Mr. Jonathan,” she said as he was turning to leave. “You can just call me Jonathan.” “Jonathan, will you stay until I fall asleep? I get scared in new places.” He settled onto thefloor beside her makeshift bed, his back against the wall.
Sophia reached out and took his hand again. And they sat there in the dim light from the hallway. My mommy sings to me,” Sophia said quietly. “But I know you probably don’t know the songs.” Jonathan’s throat tightened. His own mother had sung to him years ago before the cancer took her. He’d forgotten that or tried to. “I might know a few,” he said softly, and began to hum an old lullabi, words he didn’t know he still remembered coming back to him. Sophia was asleep within minutes.
her breathing soft and even. But Jonathan stayed there holding her small hand, watching this brave little girl who’d walked through a snowstorm to save her mother. He thought about his own life, about the corners of glass and steel he’d built around himself, about the years he’d spent accumulating success while losing touch with everything that made life meaningful.
