Once, Craig laughed and ruffled his hair.
“What’s with you, little bodyguard?”
Wyatt didn’t smile.
I actually scolded him afterward, in the kitchen, in the voice I use when I’m too tired to be gentle.
“Uncle Craig is trying to help Grandma. You don’t have to follow him everywhere.”
Wyatt stared at the floor.
“Okay, Mom.”
But that night, he slept outside Grandma’s door again.
Then, just after 4 a.m. last Thursday, a faint whisper woke me.
The house was dark and cold.
The furnace ticked.
I stepped into the hallway and stopped.
Wyatt lay under his old animal blanket against Grandma’s door, but he wasn’t asleep.
His eyes were wide open in the little yellow glow of the night-light.
He was staring at the handle, one small hand gripping his pillow.
“I won’t fall asleep tonight,” he whispered to himself.
Then, after a pause:
