Amy
I peel an orange sitting at the end of the plastic folding table. The sun pours through the eastern window and hits the newly waxed floors where Zim sits cross-legged by the play mat, bent intently over a blue crayon, the tip mashed and stubby from overuse, he was completely absorbed in his drawing in the last ten minutes. I keep one eye on him as I peel, counting his quiet minutes without thinking. Across from him, Lion is sound asleep on his bed, glasses balanced on the tip of his nose, his leg perfectly bandaged, the snores soft and contained, like he’s spent a lifetime perfecting the art of sleeping upright and not getting caught. Zim looks up, eyes catching mine, then flicking back to his page it’s as if he, too, senses the quiet possibility of happiness. I give him a small nod,
