I wrung a washcloth out in warm water from the basin and folded it neatly over my right hand.

Theodore was sound asleep in his wooden crib by the wall, his cheek pressed flat against the blue wool blanket.

Mr.

Winslow lay on his back under the heavy beige quilt.

His skin looked gray in the early light, but his throat moved with steady, quiet breaths.

When I reached down to wipe his cheek, his right wrist moved on the cotton sheet.

The motion was small, barely two inches toward the nightstand, but his fingers uncurled from his palm.