A good thing to do, try this, a good thing to do is lay on the floor. Lie there and listen to whatever. The traffic, the hum of electrical devices charging on your nightstand, your even, calm heartbeat.

“I’m scared at night, daddy,” she says. In the dim light and the close space, her frightened voice sounded even smaller; she felt so small in his arms.

“It’s okay to be. Scary things are happening,” he said. “Just yell and I’ll come get you.” He closed his eyes and willed his muscles to relax, tried to empty his mind.

“You won’t go away again?”

“I’ll never, ever leave you alone.”

It’s okay if it’s a bare wooden floor, beech parquet for example, you laid it yourself and know every board; you get used to it fast and it doesn’t hurt except for the continued pain in your shoulder where the bullet tore through bone, muscle and ligaments. Extra points if you have a walk-in closet. When designing your home or shopping for your rental, did you think of that? How nice a walk-in closet is? Alan thought of that and although they widened the hallway when they were rebuilding the upstairs, he left a long space for a walk-in closet, divided from the main bedroom by a wall he made from sheetrock and two-by-fours, with an open doorway closed off with a curtain sewn from fabric purchased at the Laura Ashley outlet in Vienna by a woman who would later shoot him in the back.

“I miss mom.”

He hugged her tighter.

“I know you do, Fiona.”

A walk-in closet is nice, because when everyone else is downstairs or in another room, or otherwise occupied with their plans for salvation or whatever else occupies them, you can get in there on the floor and scoot over underneath the rack where your suits hang and lie there. Looking up into the tubes of the suit sleeves and pantlegs, it’s a delicious rest in a peaceful wool/polyester blend forest. Instead of moss it smells a little bit like you, and you’ll be happy to learn this turns out to be a nice thing, the smell of you and classical music concerts you’ll never play again. You always thought you had some nasty BO, because if you stick your head into your armpit after a bad day, of course it smells gamey. But just a little, like this, is pleasant. This is what people smell when they smell you; except for the relatively few who stick their heads into your armpits. The smell of you, and your aftershave, and tobacco.

“Can we stay in here forever?” she asked.

“Not forever, but a long time. We can stay here all day if you want.”

“And you won’t leave me?”

“No.”

“And you won’t die? A kid said you’d die.”

“I won’t die.”

“Not ever?”

“Not for years. I’m tough. Not until you’re old.”

“I don’t want you to die.”

“I promise. I love you more than anything.”

It is dark and it smells nice and it’s warm under the suits. No wonder the cats are always back here. You can close your eyes and doze a little while everyone looks for you. Where is he? He has to fill out insurance forms. He has to talk to the attorneys. He has to talk to the police, to the child protection authorities, to the psychologist. The phone rings, let it ring until the answering machine picks it up and her voice tells them to leave a message after the beep and whoever is calling just hangs up instead. It can all wait, all of it. You would make a nice smelling, pleasant forest. What a relaxing discovery. You would like a forest like that. You could spend a lot of time there, holding her. Protecting her. Safe.