Riley woke in the afternoon to the smell of toast and the sound of someone trying very hard to be quiet.
For a few seconds she did not know where she was. Then the grey wool slid from her shoulders and the kitchen came back, the late light, the dishes stacked in the rack, a plate under a tea towel with her name written on a scrap of paper in a blocky, unpracticed hand.
Eat this. - C.
Colin was gone. The twins were in the front room, murmuring over a board game. She stood in the doorway and watched them for a long moment, and when Andy looked up and said, "Uncle Colin made pancakes and one was a hat," she laughed before she could stop herself.
It came out cracked and rusty. It was a real one anyway.
She ate the cold toast standing at the counter. She did not ask where he had put the box, and nobody told her.
By night the house had gone quiet in the way that houses do when children have been watched over all day by someone who loves them.
