We shared our bedroom, its white light the last we saw before bed. She taught me how to tuck my feet into blankets so I wouldn't get snatched in the night.

Later, we would camp out on blankets on her bedroom floor, laugh at old stories, watch reruns on her black-and-white. The laughing was our door. The stories were like pictures we'd keep, later crumple and stash away in our dresser to hide.