She pretends it’s really a meadow. Daffodils billow everywhere, spilling sunlit perfume, gilded bees. There’s laughter, skipping feet, persistent little hands patting against her arm when the story ends. She knows it’s only imagination, only daffodils nodding beside the grave. But she smiles and starts another story, eyes staying closed.

Deborah writes at an old desk surrounded by five hundred pet bugs.