She sat on the very edge of her bed, bare toes twisting deep into the pale beige carpet, which had been stained and frayed by years of abuse. Her fingers grip the short wooden needles tightly. She should loosen her hold on them, or she'll be sore soon, she knew that, she'd been knitting for years, but she couldn't stop herself. So she held on tight as she slipped one needle between a small grey stitch, and tugged hard of the thin yarn as she twisted it around the bamboo stick. She'd been knitting for many years, since she was only six or seven, and she'd gotten quite good. Every five or six rows she used a third needle to twist the stitches into half a dozen small cables.
She rocked back and forth a little to the dull sound of clacking wood and the sliding of threads against each other. She tried hard not to think about her father. Her father, still at the hospital, as he had been for many days. Her mother had pulled her aside last Saturday and warned her about it, about his impending doom. She'd told her to be strong, that he'd probably get better. Probably. She'd gone to see him this morning, since it was Saturday so there wasn't any school, and he'd been deathly pale. His cheeks had been sucked in a little, and his eyes had been deep and dark. There'd been half a dozen little tubes sticking into him, beneath his skin, which was slowly but surely losing its healthy tan. They still weren't sure exactly what it was, and it had caused for a couple of awkward conversation with her closest friends earlier that week. 'I can't come over, I'm sorry.' She'd say, 'My dad's sick and I need to go visit him.' 'Oh god I'm sorry,' they'd say, 'what's wrong?', and she'd have to shrug. Her mother was still with him, at the hospital, in that terrible empty sad room. Her baby brother, still only two, was there as well, but she'd asked to leave. 'I have a big project' she'd said, leaning in to give her father a strained, closed-eyed kiss. That was a lie. She was going home to knit. She had been knitting the entire time at the hospital too, of course, but she'd rather be knitting here at home, in her warm bedroom, on her worn soft carpet. In a safe place. Her tiny tiny size 1 needles clicked together softly in the silence. Whenever her brother and mom were home there was his crying, his babbling, her continuous talking at him, in that way mothers did. She talked about the things she was doing. 'What's for lunch Conner?' she'd say as she opened the refrigerator and glanced inside. 'Oops, looks like Jenna-bear ate all the oranges. Apples will have to do today. I wonder if we have any rice left...' It was mindless noise, and if Jenna was in the room she always left as soon as she could. She'd never had much trouble with her mother's constant mouth before,
She rocked back and forth a little to the dull sound of clacking wood and the sliding of threads against each other. She tried hard not to think about her father. Her father, still at the hospital, as he had been for many days. Her mother had pulled her aside last Saturday and warned her about it, about his impending doom. She'd told her to be strong, that he'd probably get better. Probably. She'd gone to see him this morning, since it was Saturday so there wasn't any school, and he'd been deathly pale. His cheeks had been sucked in a little, and his eyes had been deep and dark. There'd been half a dozen little tubes sticking into him, beneath his skin, which was slowly but surely losing its healthy tan. They still weren't sure exactly what it was, and it had caused for a couple of awkward conversation with her closest friends earlier that week. 'I can't come over, I'm sorry.' She'd say, 'My dad's sick and I need to go visit him.' 'Oh god I'm sorry,' they'd say, 'what's wrong?', and she'd have to shrug. Her mother was still with him, at the hospital, in that terrible empty sad room. Her baby brother, still only two, was there as well, but she'd asked to leave. 'I have a big project' she'd said, leaning in to give her father a strained, closed-eyed kiss. That was a lie. She was going home to knit. She had been knitting the entire time at the hospital too, of course, but she'd rather be knitting here at home, in her warm bedroom, on her worn soft carpet. In a safe place. Her tiny tiny size 1 needles clicked together softly in the silence. Whenever her brother and mom were home there was his crying, his babbling, her continuous talking at him, in that way mothers did. She talked about the things she was doing. 'What's for lunch Conner?' she'd say as she opened the refrigerator and glanced inside. 'Oops, looks like Jenna-bear ate all the oranges. Apples will have to do today. I wonder if we have any rice left...' It was mindless noise, and if Jenna was in the room she always left as soon as she could. She'd never had much trouble with her mother's constant mouth before,
