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"Then don't."

"I need to check on Noah."

Mom nods.

"Go."

I leave before either of us can say anything else.

Noah is awake. He's lying on top of his blankets with a book open against his chest, staring at the ceiling. I lean against the doorframe.

"I thought you were taking a nap."

"I tried."

"For how long?"

He considers it.

"Seven minutes."

"Excellent effort."

He looks at me. I step into the room and sit on the edge of his bed.

"How are you doing?"

He shrugs. For today, I'll accept that as a complete answer. Then he asks, "Did people stare at you?"

I blink.

"What?"

"Today."

Oh.

"A little."

"They think you look like Mom."

"So I've noticed."

"You do."

"I know."

He studies me for a second.

"You don't like it."

I sigh.

"I don't like being stared at."

"Me either."

"Then we agree."