His room smells like sweat, but soft and cold at the same time. Something smells vinegary, too. It's dark, and the curtains are pulled open. Henry stares at me from his bed. He's wearing a nightshirt and his hands hold the top of his sheets. He looks sick, still, cheeks dented in. There's a bad bruise on the side of his neck, dark and puffy like clouds. Henry has rings around his eyes, and his stare is narrow and fixed on me.

I wave at him. My stomach dances a little because he's okay. He's staring at me, and he's okay. I don't try to get closer. He's supposed to be lying down, getting better, and I don't want to get sick. Momma would kill me, and then Mrs. Walker would yell at me. “Hi,” I whisper, smiling. “I hope you get better soon.”

His mouth lands crooked at me as he frowns a little. The windows shake when a train rolls past.

“I g – sorry, you should be sleeping. You need to get better.” I open my mouth, but I'm not really sure what else to say. I turn around and open the door a little to peek into the hallway. No one is there. I turn back to Henry, smile, and wave.

His eyes get big, but his eyebrows are still close together. He raises his hand slowly and then waves back at me.

I wave again and slip back into the hallway. I close the door really quietly. It doesn't even make a sound. I'm a little proud of that, but I'm also just relieved that Henry is okay. That he might be coming back to school soon. That things might be going back to normal after all this.

I go back to the living room, and the music is so pretty I walk straight over to it, just so I can listen to it better. Bill puts his hand on my shoulder. “There you are,” he says. “Where did you go?”

“I went pee,” I say.

“Well, come on. It's time to go home, and you definitely didn't finish your homework.”

“I did,” I say. I didn't. I think I have half a math worksheet left to do.

Bill looks at me like he doesn't believe me. He hums and pulls me away from the gramophone. “Home. Momma wants us home, and the Sunday paper is heavier. You need your sleep.”

I grumble and peel away from him to say goodbye to Mrs. Walker. She's in the kitchen again talking to Mr. Walker and one of the neighbors. She looks at me and smiles and taps twice on the cutting board. Mr. Walker is the one who comes over to me. “Thank you for coming over, Charlie,” he says. “I'll tell Henry you came when he wakes up. I bet he'll be really happy to know you were here.”

“Can I come over tomorrow? After lunch?”

“I'll say 'yes' for now. We'll have to see how he's doing tomorrow.”

I smile. “I'm going to finish all my homework tonight so I can stay over until dinner!”

Mr. Walker laughs at that.

Bill grabs me by my collar. “I knew you didn't finish,” he says, but I know he's smiling. “Come on.”

He tugs me away, and I wave at Mr. Walker before following Bill out the front door and into the cold. “Henry was awake,” I tell him. I skip down the front steps towards the wooden sidewalk.

Bill looks at me. “I knew you didn't go to the bathroom.”

“I was going to, but then I thought I'd see how he was.”

“How is he?”

“He's got a big bruise,” I say, and I press my hand on the side of my neck. “Right here. He looks bad. Really bad.”

“I heard from someone in my class that he banged his head, too. That's why Dr. Tucker said he doesn't remember things.”

“What did Mrs. Walker say it was? When she came over earlier? She called it something.”

“I don't know. I wasn't listening to her.”

I hum and purse my lips, trying to remember. It started with a “f”, I know that, but I don't remember it. Maybe I'll ask Momma about it when I finish my homework, and then I remember that I have to finish it. I grumble, and a train passes below us, and the ground grumbles with me.

When we get in, it's bright and cold. The windows are closed, and the radiators are icy to the touch. Momma and Gramma are out. Gramps is kneeling in front of the fireplace trying to get a fire going. “The boiler stopped working,” he says. “It looks like something on it broke, and we can't fix it tonight.”

I stare at him. “Momma always knows how to fix it.”

He shakes his head. “When everything is working on it, yeah. But something on it broke, and she can't fix it. She needs to replace the piece.”

“How long is it going to take?” asks Bill.

“It's late,” Gramps says. “The store might not be open right now.”

Bill looks at me. He grumbles and goes into our room. He comes back with two sweaters and hands one to me, and a blanket. “So it might be fixed tomorrow?”

“If it's open. It's Sunday tomorrow.”

“Do you know how to work it?”

“No,” Gramps says. “Not familiar with how the oil-fired ones go.”

When Momma gets back, her face is long. The store isn't open and they're not willing to open up until Monday morning. Gramps goes to the neighbors and borrows some coal, which is also being rationed now. The old boiler is right next to the regular one. There's a slot to the side yard that's been closed up. Gramps gets a fire going in it, and the boiler burps and pops as it heats up, but it takes too long for everything to get warm again. The air in the basement becomes too hard to breathe for me and Bill. A wet patch under the boiler starts growing. We clean it up while Gramps keeps at it. Momma and Gramma stay upstairs. Momma says she's always been scared of the coal boiler, but she laughs when she says it. After a while, Gramps throws up his hands and puts out the fire in it. “It isn't working properly,” he says. “Damned thing is leaking or something.”

No one really says anything about that. We thank Gramps for all his hard work, and he goes back into the basement to clean up from all the soot and oil on him. Bill takes back the coal we didn't use to the neighbors. They're not happy that any of it was used, but take it back.

I don't go back into the basement. The basement stairs are this big awkward square of darkness and, even though I know Gramps is downstairs, I still don't want to risk going back down again.

“Your father,” Momma whispers, her hand on her forehead.

“What?” I ask.

She doesn't want to say. Momma walks to her room.

Gramma smiles and crouches down to see my face better. “Your father would know how to make things better,” she says. “He would...sing songs by the fire. Tell stories. No one tells stories quite like your Papa.” Gramma puts her hand on my shoulder. “She misses him a lot, Charlie.”

“We all do,” I say.

She hums. “She doesn't miss him like you do, sweetheart.” She takes my hand and we go into the living room. The fire in the fireplace is going strong now, and Gramma puts another couple logs on the fire. She turns on the radio, and soft music starts playing. “Have any other letters come from him?”

I shake my head.

Gramma smiles, but it's so sad it hurts my heart. “Write him when you can, okay? He's fighting for us. We can hope he comes back safe.”

I want to say, “He will come back safe,” but I don't know if I can. This falling pit in my stomach keeps popping up every time I think about Papa, wherever he is, and I don't want to think that he won't be coming back. If he doesn't come back, what's the point of him going there at all?

We sit together for a while until I can't stand the heat on my back. I go to bed.