The breathing leveled out again. A soft snore escaped their mother’s lips. "Go," Maya mouthed.
Next to him, the rhythmic, heavy breathing of their mother continued undisturbed. She was sprawled across the queen-sized bed, still wearing her scrubs from the double shift at the hospital. The room smelled of lavender laundry detergent and the faint, antiseptic tang of the clinic.
The floorboards didn’t just creak; they screamed. Or at least, that’s how it felt to seven-year-old Leo as he froze, one foot hovering over the carpet.
"Move," his sister, Maya, hissed. She was ten and possessed the terrifying focus of a diamond thief. "I’m trying!" Leo whispered back, his voice cracking.
Leo took a bite, the cocoa melting on his tongue. He looked at Maya, then at their mom. He broke off a small square and placed it gently on the nightstand, right next to her glasses.