The sound returns.
Closer now.
A soft dragging on the floor, as if something heavy were being pulled.
Lily’s mouth opens to cry, but you put a finger to your lips.
She bites down on her pajama sleeve to stifle the sound.
Your eyes are glued to the emergency folder you grabbed instinctively.
Among insurance policies and birth certificates is something your mother insisted you keep: a printed list of numbers.
The old-fashioned kind. Because paper doesn’t lose its signal.
You remember Derek laughing.
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