Elizabeth wakes me up before dawn and says that there are mice in the walls, lots and lots of them. I pull her into bed with us, and she throws her arms around my neck like she used to when she was two. Back then, her sleeping with us was a nightly occurrence, but it's been a while. I realize I've missed her and that I wish, quietly and only to myself, that you were somewhere else.

I watch our daughter settle in between us, finally relaxing except for and her tiny hands that seem to keep moving, restless as birds. She isn't scared of the mice; instead, she tells me stories in her child whisper about the songs these mice are singing. "They're in love," she says, "and they sing about it all the time." I ask her what it sounds like, and she says, "Like nothing at all."

You make a snoring noise, a snuffle and a snort, and Elizabeth muffles a giggle. I smile at her and she presses her forehead into my shoulder. I want to stop everything, stop this moment, and keep her here between us, quiet as a mouse. Or perhaps I'll just reach over, and with a small push, you will go tumbling off of the bed and disappear forever. It would sound like nothing at all.