“Sure.” I scoot closer to Amelia to make room.
“Thanks.” She settles on my other side, keeping a careful distance. “I know it’s stupid. I’m not usually this clingy.”
“It’s not stupid.” I adjust the blanket to cover her, too.
“I keep thinking I’ll wake up and this will all be some fucked-up dream.”
“Me too.”
“All the women on this side, eh?” Rosa appears, moving slowly toward us. “I think I’ll join you girls, if that’s alright.”
“Of course,” Amelia says before I can respond.
Rosa lowers herself to the floor with surprising grace for a woman her age, settling at our feet. She arranges her pillows, muttering in Spanish under her breath.
“You don’t have to sleep on the floor,” I say. “There’s a couch?—”
“I sleep where I want.” She pats my leg. “And tonight, I want to be with my granddaughters.”
The word strikes me somewhere vulnerable. I wonder?—
My mother sits rigidly beside my father, who stretches out on a couch. They whisper to each other, shooting glances our way. Probably discussing how I’ve betrayed them.
The reverend has claimed the farthest corner, his lips moving in endless prayer again. Not the lullaby I prefer.
Julien sits by the door, a machete he found laid across his knees. His eyes meet mine for a brief moment before shifting to Cameron, who crouches beside him, speaking too softly for me to hear.
Probably coordinating watches.
“Try to sleep,” I whisper to Amelia. “I’ll be right here.”
She nods, eyes already drifting closed. “Dakota?”
“Hmm?”
“Will you sing?”
My chest tightens. “I?—”
“Please.” Her voice is barely audible.
I used to sing her to sleep every night when she was first diagnosed. When the pain kept her awake and the medication wasn’t enough. But then Mother came in. Said that I sounded like a street performer begging for coins and forbade me to do it again.
But Amelia’s eyes plead with me. And maybe it’s the apocalypse, or maybe it’s watching people die today…
I start softly, just for her, an old lullaby Rosa sang for us during the summers.
“Arrorró, mi niño, arrorró, mi sol…”
My voice cracks on the first line. I clear my throat and try again, stronger this time, letting the melody drift like smoke through the candlelit room.
“Arrorró, pedazo de mi corazón…”
Amelia’s eyes drift closed, a faint smile on her lips. I keep singing, the Spanish words flowing more naturally.
“Este niño lindo ya quiere dormir…”
Rosa joins in, her aged voice harmonizing with mine, creating a texture that wraps around us like a blanket.
