Emery stood and stretched. It was still dark out and, though he couldn’t see the clock, he was sure it was still quite early. However, he couldn’t seem to get back to sleep now that he’d woken. So he padded quietly out of the bedroom and down the steps to the sitting room.

He sat on a cushioned chair in the corner and turned on the lamp. In moments he was busily weaving yarn in and around the nails that his father had long ago driven into a spool for their mother’s use. In the past months that they had been back at home, Emery had picked up the craft his mother had tried to teach both boys.

The steady, almost mindless, task was something that, unlike reading, stilled his mind when he had sleepless nights. It was the one thing that could compose him enough to sleep when he woke late at night. It wouldn’t be long before his eyes would close.