Outside, the winter wind pushed against the windowpane in long low gusts.

My son was asleep down the hall.

My husband was away.

The house was as silent as a held breath, and in all that silence there were only two sounds: the old clock ticking in the hallway, patient and indifferent, and Fiona’s breathing, shallow and slow and far too hard.

For a long while she seemed to sleep.

And then, without warning, her eyes opened, and they moved across the dim room, searching, until they found me.

I leaned in at once, close, so she would not have to reach for me.