I could see the glow of him through the dark, if you know what I mean, a face wrapped in white.

He does this thing just before he falls asleep: he makes a cocoon. Twisting and twisting and then one big heave over to the one side, then he flops back again, and the sheet is a sausage casing. I had only known it because every 12:30 AM, I have to unpeel him all pink sweat and flap the sheet—one, two, three—and he sighs, the breeze, and curls his knees up while the cotton settles like a breath back onto him.

I'd never seen him tuck himself.

I could see the glow of him through the dark, a small figure in a great big bed high with crisp white fluff. I watched him do it from my bed across the way, Ben sprawled with mama (me?) and Evan decadent, by his own self. I caught his eye and his teeth spread wide.

I see you.

He giggled.

I see what you do.

We stared at each other a while, glowing in the dark until he blew. I caught. I blew back. He caught.

Kate Inglis