That morning, I already felt like something was wrong.
When I brushed my teeth, I looked different in the mirror. My face was pale, and my lips were pale too, as if someone had wiped all the color away. I touched my forehead with the back of my hand. It felt a little warm, but I wasn't sure.
Maybe I had kicked off my blanket last night.
I set Boo on my pillow, tucked his nearly detached ear back into place, and went downstairs.
Mom was frying eggs in the kitchen. Ever since she came back, breakfast looked pretty again—the fried eggs were round, the crusts had been cut off the toast, and the juice was poured into clear glasses. Even the color looked beautiful.
“Good morning, Xia.” She turned her head and smiled.
“Good morning.” I walked over to the table and sat in my spot. The pink bunny cup was on the left, and the fruit plate was on the right.
Mom carried the plate over and set the fried egg in front of me. She glanced at me, then reached over and touched my cheek.
“You don’t look so good. Do you feel sick?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
She watched me for another two seconds, then smiled. “Maybe you didn’t sleep well. Go to bed early tonight, okay?”
I nodded and picked up my chopsticks.
The egg yolk wobbled on the plate, bright and shiny. It looked delicious. But my stomach felt strange—not hungry, not full. Just heavy and unwilling to move.
I took a bite of toast and chewed for a long time before swallowing.
On the way to school, my backpack seemed heavier than usual.
It wasn’t really heavier. My shoulders were lighter—no, softer. The kind of soft that couldn’t quite hold anything up.
When I reached the school entrance, Kayla was already there. She waved when she saw me, and the bow in her hair bobbed.
“Good morning!”
“Good morning.”
She ran over and tilted her head at me.
“You look weird today.”
“Do I?”
“Yeah. Your face is so pale.” She reached out as if to touch my forehead, then pulled her hand back. “Are you sick?”
I shook my head.
“No. Maybe I didn’t sleep well.”
Exactly what I had told Mom earlier.
Kayla looked at me for a while. She didn’t seem to believe me, but she didn’t ask again. She took my hand and led me toward the classroom. Her hand was warm. Mine was cold.
She gave it a squeeze and frowned.
But she didn’t say anything.
By the second class, I started feeling cold.
The heat was on in the classroom. Everyone else was wearing light jackets, and some people had even taken theirs off. But I zipped mine all the way to the top and still felt cold. It wasn’t coming from outside. It was coming from inside me, rising outward from my bones.
The teacher wrote on the board, but the sound of the chalk seemed very far away. I looked at the words. I knew every one of them, but when they were put together, I couldn’t understand them.
I put my hands beneath the desk and clenched them into fists. My fingers were icy. My nails dug into my palms, and the little bit of pain helped me stay awake.
I couldn’t let anyone notice.
At the orphanage, being sick was your own problem. If you had a fever, you drank more water. If you coughed, you endured it. If you had diarrhea, you ate less. The director would give you medicine, but it was bitter, and taking it didn’t always make you better. The most important thing was not to make anyone feel troubled. Sick children were kept apart, alone in a room with the door closed. No one came in.
I didn’t want to be alone in a room.
So I couldn’t get sick.
I straightened up, turned my textbook to the right page, and pretended to read.
At lunchtime, Kayla sat beside me.
I opened my lunchbox. Mom had made it today. There were little rice balls, fried shrimp, broccoli, and a heart-shaped piece of tamagoyaki. Everything was arranged so neatly, like a picture in a magazine.
But when I looked at the food, the heavy feeling in my stomach grew worse.
I picked up a piece of broccoli and put it in my mouth. I chewed a few times. It tasted very faint, like chewing cotton.
Kayla ate happily beside me, telling me about the cartoon she had watched yesterday. I listened to her voice and nodded, murmuring little sounds, but her voice seemed to be on the other side of something. I couldn’t hear it clearly.
“Why aren’t you eating?” Kayla stopped and looked at my lunchbox, which I had barely touched.
“I am.” I picked up another piece of broccoli.
She watched me for a while. Then she picked up a piece of fried chicken from her own lunchbox and put it on my lid.
“Eat this. It’s really good.”
I stared at the fried chicken, and my throat tightened a little.
Not because I was sick.
Because she was paying attention to me.
I ate the fried chicken. I felt a little sick while chewing, but I held it in and swallowed everything.
Then I smiled at her.
“It’s good.”
She smiled too.
I barely heard anything in class that afternoon.
My head grew heavier and heavier, as if it were filled with water. Whenever I moved, I felt dizzy. My palms began to sweat. They were sticky, and my pen kept slipping while I held it.
I lay on my desk and pretended to look at my textbook. Really, I was counting—how many classes were left? Two more. If I held on for two more classes, I could go home.
Then everything would be okay. I could go back to my room, lie in bed, hug Boo, and sleep. Then I’d be fine.
That was how it had always been before.
Before, I had always held on by myself.
After school, Kayla said, “See you tomorrow,” at the school entrance.
I waved at her. My hand felt so heavy when I lifted it.
Big brother didn’t come to pick me up today. He had a club activity and would be home later.
I walked home alone.
The sky was already beginning to darken. The streetlights came on one by one. My shadow stretched long across the ground, wavering with every step.
My backpack pressed down on my shoulders. With every step, the ground seemed to sway.
I walked very slowly.
Much, much slower than usual.
When I got home, Mom was in the kitchen preparing dinner.
“You’re home!” Her voice drifted out of the kitchen along with the smell of stir-fried food.
“Mm.”
“How was school today?”
“Good.”
I changed into my slippers and walked to the stairs.
“Xia, wash your hands before you go upstairs.”
“Okay.”
I washed my hands. The water from the faucet was cool, and I shivered when it touched my skin.
Every step felt so high as I went upstairs.
I walked into my room, dropped my backpack on the floor, and immediately collapsed onto the bed.
Boo was beside my pillow, his nearly detached ear lopsided. I pulled him over and hugged him.
“Boo,” I whispered, “I don’t feel good.”
Boo’s eyes were round and black as he looked at me.
“But it’s okay.” I buried my face in his belly. “I’ll be fine after I sleep. That’s how it was before.”
That was how it was before.
That was how it had always been.
One person, one blanket, waiting for morning.
I pulled the blanket over my head, covering both myself and Boo.
It was dark and stuffy under the blanket, but I felt safe.
I don’t know how much time passed.
Someone was calling me.
“Xia, it’s time to eat.”
It was Mom’s voice, coming up from downstairs. It sounded far away through the floor between us.
I wanted to answer, but when I opened my mouth, the sound caught in my throat and wouldn’t come out.
After a while, I heard footsteps coming upstairs.
The door opened.
“Xia? Why are you hiding under the blanket?” Mom’s voice came closer.
She pulled back one corner of the blanket. Light shone in, making me squint.
Then Mom’s hand touched my forehead.
Her hand was cool.
No—it was my forehead that was too hot.
“Oh my gosh, you’re burning up!” Her voice suddenly changed, from gentle to panicked. “Xia, you have a fever! Why didn’t you say anything?”
I looked at her and moved my lips.
“I’m… I’m okay. I’ll be fine after I sleep.”
Her eyes turned red.
Not angry red. Worried red.
“Silly child.” She picked me up, and my head rested on her shoulder. “You have to say something when you don’t feel well. Why didn’t you tell us?”
I didn’t know how to answer.
Because I didn’t know that I was allowed to say so.
I don’t remember much of what happened afterward.
There seemed to be so many voices.
Mom was on the phone, speaking urgently. “Where’s the thermometer? What about fever medicine?”
Dad’s footsteps were fast—much faster than usual. Normally, his steps were steady, like a metronome, but tonight they were frantic.
Someone pressed something cold against my forehead. Someone took off my jacket and changed me into dry clothes. Someone brought a cup of water to my lips and said, “Take a sip.”
I took a sip. The water was warm, but my throat was burning. As it went down, it felt like a cool line inside me.
Then I fell asleep again.
I don’t know what time it was in the middle of the night.
I woke up.
I hadn’t woken naturally. I had been woken by the cold. My body was shaking, my teeth chattering, but my forehead was burning. It was so hot that my pillow was damp.
The night-light was on in the room—the orange-yellow one Dad had installed on his first day.
I curled into a ball, my knees against my chest, and hugged Boo. His body was cool. His stuffing had no warmth, but I still held him.
I didn’t call anyone.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to.
I couldn’t.
It felt like something was blocking my throat. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. And—and I wasn’t sure if anyone would come if I called.
I knew this home was different from the orphanage.
I knew Mom would come. Dad would come.
But the things my body remembered were beyond my mind’s control. My body remembered that no one came even when I called. No one came even when I cried. So don’t call. Don’t cry. Hold on by yourself.
I buried my face in Boo’s belly.
“Boo,” I breathed, barely making a sound. “I’m so cold.”
Then the door opened.
It wasn’t Mom. It wasn’t Dad.
It was big brother.
He stood in the doorway wearing pajamas, his hair messy as if he had just climbed out of bed. One hand was still on the doorknob, and his eyes were narrowed as if he wasn’t fully awake yet.
When he saw me curled up on the bed, he froze for a moment.
Then his eyes went fully awake.
“Gu Xia?”
He walked over quickly. His hand reached out and touched my forehead. Like Mom’s, his hand was cool, but it was bigger, with hard knuckles.
“You’re burning up this badly?” His voice was very low, but I could hear something trembling inside it.
He turned and ran out.
His voice came from the hallway, calling in a hushed shout—the kind meant not to wake the neighbors, but impossible to hold back:
“Dad! Mom! Xia’s burning up!”
Then there were many footsteps.
Fast and frantic, rushing over from the other end of the hallway.
The lights came on.
Mom rushed in, her hair loose and pillow marks still on her face. She crouched beside the bed, pulled back my blanket, and touched my face, my neck, and my hands.
“Why did your fever come back? It had just gone down a little…”
Dad came in behind her, carrying a thermometer and a wet towel. He didn’t say anything. He placed the towel on my forehead, then tucked the thermometer under my arm.
“Thirty-nine point eight.” He glanced at the number, his voice deep.
Mom picked me up and let me lean against her. Her pajamas were soft, and she smelled like laundry detergent. She was warm.
“Should we go to the hospital?” she asked Dad.
“Give her fever medicine first. Watch her for half an hour. If it does not come down, we will go.”
Dad went to get warm water. Mom broke the tablet in half and held it to my lips.
“Xia, sweetheart, take your medicine.”
I opened my mouth and swallowed the medicine. It was bitter. Even after the water washed it down, the bitterness stayed on my tongue.
But Mom kept rubbing my back. Once, twice, three times.
The same rhythm she had used to soothe me to sleep that night.
Big brother stood beside us the whole time.
He didn’t sit down or leave. He leaned against the desk with his hands in his pajama pockets and watched me.
I couldn’t see his expression very clearly. My eyes were blurry, whether from the fever or something else, I didn’t know. But I knew he was there.
He stayed there the whole time.
When Mom wiped away my sweat, he went to get a second cup of water. When Dad took my temperature, he stood in the doorway to block the draft. No one asked him to do those things. He did them on his own.
A long time passed—maybe half an hour, maybe more—and my body slowly stopped shaking. Dad changed the towel on my forehead three times. He was the one who changed it every time.
“Thirty-eight point five.” Dad checked the thermometer again. “It’s coming down.”
Mom let out a breath of relief, set me back on my pillow, and tucked the blanket around me.
“Go to sleep. Mom’s right here.”
I looked at her.
Then my eyes moved to Dad. He stood at the foot of the bed, still holding the wrung-out towel.
Then I saw big brother. He was still leaning against the desk, not moving.
Three people.
All here.
It was the middle of the night. Everyone should have been asleep. But they were all in my room. Because I had a fever. Because I didn’t feel well.
At the orphanage, when I had a fever, I lay in bed alone and waited for morning. No one came to touch my forehead. No one came to take my temperature. No one came to change my towel.
But now—
“You…” My voice was so quiet that I could barely hear it myself. “Why are you all here…?”
When I finished saying that, something fell from my eye.
It was warm.
It slid down my cheek and onto my pillow.
Then another one fell.
Then they wouldn’t stop.
I cried.
Not loudly. Not sobbing or wailing. The kind of crying where tears kept falling and falling, my mouth closed, my shoulders trembling. Like someone had turned on a faucet inside me and couldn’t turn it off.
I didn’t know what I was crying about.
Maybe because I felt sick. Maybe because I was scared. Maybe because—they were all here.
They really were all here.
At three in the morning, they were all here.
Mom pulled me tightly into her arms. She patted my back and kept saying, “It’s okay now. It’s okay. Mom’s here, Dad’s here, and big brother’s here too.”
Dad came over and crouched beside the bed. His hand was very large. He placed it gently on top of my head and didn’t move it even once. He just left it there.
As if he were saying: I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.
I cried for a long time.
Long enough to soak the shoulder of Mom’s pajamas. Long enough for my eyes to swell until everything looked blurry.
But I never made a sound.
I still didn’t really know how to cry.
Something you haven’t practiced for seven years isn’t something you can learn all at once.
I don’t know when I fell asleep after that.
When I woke up, it was already light outside.
The curtains were still closed, but pale light seeped in around the edges.
I moved a little and realized I was being held.
Mom was lying beside me, one arm around my waist, her breathing soft and light. She hadn’t gone back to her own room all night.
I turned my head to the other side.
Dad was asleep in the chair beside the bed, his head against the backrest. His hand hung over his knee, still clutching the towel. It had already dried.
Then I looked toward the doorway.
Big brother was sitting on the floor with his back against the doorframe, his legs stretched out and his head tilted to one side. His pajamas were wrinkled, and his hair was even messier than it had been the night before.
He was asleep too.
He hadn’t gone back to his room.
He had sat outside my door all night.
I looked at the three of them, and my eyes grew hot again.
But this time, I didn’t cry.
I just pulled the blanket up beneath my nose and whispered, very, very softly:
“I want to stay here.”
Only Boo could hear me.
Boo was beside my pillow, his nearly detached ear tilted to one side, as if he were nodding.
The light outside slowly grew brighter.
A new day.
I didn’t have to hold on by myself anymore.