At bedtime, in the morning over cereal, while I tied his shoelaces before school. It was never dramatic. That almost made it worse. Sam did not say it like he wanted attention. He said it like he was telling me a fact.
By the fourth night, I stopped brushing it off so easily.
I sat on the edge of his bed and asked him to tell me exactly what he meant. The blue race car blanket was pulled up to his chin, and his small face looked serious in the glow of his night-light.
He swallowed hard and said, “I can feel it.”
My stomach tightened. “Feel what?”
“That someone stood in my room when the lights were off.”
The words came back to me later, over and over, because of how certain he sounded. Not confused. Not dreamy. Certain.
I checked everything.
Closet. Under the bed. Windows locked. Doors secured.
Nothing.
