Page 175 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby

“Sleep,” Mama says, and kisses my forehead where my thoughts live.

Daddy checks the latch-click even though the door is fine, it is always fine, but he does it because it is his prayer and I like prayers that sound likeclick.

I close my eyes and listen to the house do its night chores—radiator singing, fridge purring, the click of the door that is a promise, the city outside being busy without us.

I am warm like toast.

I think about my jobs.

I think about the star that is crooked on porpoise.

I think about being the Looker who sees lights and herbs and hats and hands and knows all the codes—double ring, secret word, be kind.

“Bee?” Daddy whispers from the doorway.

“Yes,” I say, very tiny.

“Best sprinkle captain,” he says.

“Best Daddy,” I say, because truth should be said out loud sometimes.

He goes back to the kitchen where Mama is making two mugs of sleepy tea and pretending not to put extra sugar in Daddy’s.

They talk in sofa voices.

I don’t catch all the words, just the good ones—boring, tomorrow, pancakes, safe.

The star on the tree glows through my door crack like it is looking at me on porpoise.

Maybe it is.

Maybe stars know about little girls and their families and crooked things that stand up anyway.

I put my hand on my giraffe.

He is warm because he sat on the radiator too close; we rescued him.

I smile with my whole face.

I keep this feeling.

I put it in my pocket with the mouse whistle and the secret word and Nonna’s thyme and the way the door goesclick.

Outside, the snow keeps trying. Inside, we already did it. I sleep.