Through the small, drafty window, the streetlights of Oak Creek were just beginning to flicker against the dark Ohio sky.
The floorboards in the hallway did not make a sound if I kept my weight on the outer edges of the oak planks.
By five in the morning, the kitchen was cold enough that I could see my own breath under the single bulb above the sink.
I set four slices of whole wheat bread on the clean counter and opened a jar of yellow mustard.
The hinge on the basement door gave a tiny squeak, and Emma stepped into the light.
She was clutching her worn rag doll by its left arm, her thumb tucked securely into her mouth.
“You are up early, sweetheart,” I said, keeping my voice down to a raspy whisper.
She did not answer right away, but she came to stand by my knee, her bare feet tucked under the hem of her nightgown.
I adjusted the cuffs of my flannel shirt, folding the heavy red fabric back twice to keep the mustard off the sleeves.
“I like those shirts,” Emma whispered, leaning her head against my hip. “They smell like cedar.”
