“Tell me a story” she said, and looked at me with expectation.
She was in what I called “girl mode” – sometimes she seemed as old as the wind, and others, like tonight, she seemed the ten year old girl she really was.
“What kind of story?” I asked her. I was secretly glad for the distraction. It kept me from paying too close attention to how down I was feeling. It kept me from worrying about how I would get back down the ladder without using my hands.
“Any kind! Please Adrian? Anything at all will do. I just want to be distracted.”
She kicked off her shoes and sat on the arm of my chair, careful not to bump into the casts. Her arms wrapped around my shoulders, and curled around me, cuddling me like a giant stuffed animal. It was too hard to resist her wishes under normal circumstances, let alone when she was like this. I sighed, but not out of aggravation.
“All right Amy. I’ll tell you a story.”
And so, safely aloft in the Silo, wrapped in her arms and the scent of her hair, I told her a story.