Sam wished her father were there. He never said much when she was upset. Not like her grandfather, who’d spin her stories; her brother, who would try to make her laugh; or her mother, who’d comfort her. But whether Sam was nine or nineteen, her father would mix her a cup of hot cocoa and sit with her on the back porch. Just . . . sit. Jonathan Harker knew not all horrors could be talked away. That sometimes, you just had to sit with them, until you could bear it.
