Brooklyn picked up a green crayon and started drawing long, uneven spikes across the bottom of the page.

“Is Grandma coming back tonight?” she asked.

“No,” I said flatly.

“She isn’t coming back tonight.”

Brooklyn nodded once, pressing so hard on the green crayon that the tip snapped off on the paper.

By eight o’clock, Kevin had taken Brooklyn down the hall to the children’s play corner to build with plastic blocks before bed.

The family room was dark except for the narrow strip of fluorescent light spilling under the door from the main corridor.

I lay still on the pullout mattress, staring up at the square ceiling tiles while the plastic ice pack melted against my gown.