Pictures. Paintings of windmills hung on white walls. Tiny Italian lights shine down from the ceiling beams. Broken lava lamps. A cat scratching post. Smell of banana bread baking in the oven. Cutting it before it’s cooled. Crumbles on the linoleum floor. She lies in bed asleep.

This world at four o’clock in the morning. Cars and semis drive through the night. Truck stops open. Selling live bait and windshield washing fluid. Hot coffee and fried pies. A box of donuts. The sun will be here soon.

I hear a storm coming. Thunder and wind gusts. The old house shakes a little. Sitting in a recliner, I hear the shuffle of Ted’s feet. His paws dancing down the hallway. He asks for food. We all ask for food. A can of tuna is opened, and water drips onto the dry mix. Sandwiches are made with mayo and a dill pickle on the side. Placed in the refrigerator for later. Still, she lies asleep.

Morning comes too soon. Day begins like any other day. On the news, there are stories of murder and mayhem in the streets. Officials lying about evidence. Saying we are not at fault. Telling us to remain calm. And she still sleeps.

She might never wake up.