Mum sits up in the bed. I freeze. She rubs her eyes with her fists; her hair is matted. I slide toward the door. September? she says. I am nearly out. If she turned her head, she would see me. I almost go to her. If she said my name, I would go to her. She is still half-asleep, dreaming, perhaps. I put my hand on the doorknob and turn it.
