The pajama-clad boys hover at the edges of my bed, pressing little arms to their sides as they fight the urge to jump in. They stare pointedly at the bandage peeking through my vest, brown gazes intensifying as my husband reminds them softly,
“Be gentle, boys.”
They hug my left side gingerly as I inhale little boy smells of soap, Legos and dinged hotwheels. I pat the side of the bed gently; open a book and we begin story time. It’s my husband’s turn to flitter at the edge of the bed, watching silently as we cling valiantly to normal.