“Atticus!” she screams as she barrels through the door. She takes the stairs two at a time and throws herself against the bedroom door. It rattles in its frame, locked, and holds. She focuses, calls some of that heat that’s always waiting down inside her, and slams into the door again. This time it gives. And there’s the little girl, the little doll, curled up next to Atticus. He looks to be sleeping, but there’s a looseness about his limbs that speaks of something more than sleep, that shouts at her that if she doesn’t do something, he’s never waking up. The child looks up, heavy lidded.
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