A high-pitched scream rang through the Turner flat.

Patrick Turner sat bolt upright in bed. "Shelagh?!"

Then he remembered that his wife was still on night duty at the maternity home. The scream had come from his daughter's room.

Patrick stumbled out of bed and ran down the hall, stubbing his big toe on the edge of the hall table. Cursing, he flung open the door to the smallest bedroom and turned on the light.

"Angela? What's wrong?" His daughter sat up in bed, her blonde hair sticking up and her face scrunched and red from sobbing. He rushed to the bed and pulled her into his lap, checking her over for injuries or signs of illness. But she didn't have a fever or appear unwell, aside from the tears streaming down her cheeks. Angela clung to him and buried her face in his pajama top.

"Sweetheart, what's wrong? Did you have a nightmare?" He rubbed her back, rocking her back and forth. "It's all right. It was only a dream."

Angela let out a hiccupping sob. "Swirls, dadda. Don't like the swirls."

Squirrels? Patrick tried not to laugh at his daughter's distress as he picked her up and took her to the bath. Setting her on the edge of the counter, he wiped her tears and her little red nose. "Angela, there aren't any squirrels, I promise."

She sniffled. "Don't like swirls."

"I know," Patrick said with rehearsed patience. "And there will never be any in this house. Now, back to bed." He lifted her up and carried her back to her room. Angela leaned against his shoulder and kept her thumb in her mouth, a leftover coping mechanism from her babyhood.

Patrick laid her in bed and tucked her in again. Angela looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes and her lower lip wobbled. "Mumma."

He sighed. "Mummy is still at work, sweetheart," he said, though he knew such an excuse wouldn't mean anything to the toddler.

She sniffled again, more tears threatening to fall. "Want Mumma!"

He stroked back her hair and kissed her forehead, trying to comfort her. "Mummy will be here in the morning, but you have to go to sleep first."

Angela's face crumpled and she began crying again, small whimpering sobs. It broke Patrick's heart to hear them. He ran a hand through his hair and glanced at the clock. Nearly 3 a.m. He was going to bury that Beatrix Potter book in the morning.

"All right, all right. It's all right." Patrick knelt by his daughter's bed again and gathered her in his arms. He rocked her back and forth a few moments. "I miss Mummy too." Particularly now, he thought. Shelagh knew exactly how to calm Angela, employing the right mix of gentleness and firmness. She wouldn't have even read that bloody squirrel story in the first place.

But Shelagh wasn't there and she wouldn't be for hours. Patrick did the next best thing he could think of to comfort his daughter. "We'll wait for her together, okay?"

Angela nodded, her tears smearing against his neck. He lifted her up, balancing her on one hip, and carried her down the hall to his and Shelagh's room.

He laid her on Shelagh's side of the bed. Angela turned over and pressed her face into the pillow, breathing in her mother's scent. Patrick could remember Timothy acting similar in the days after Marianne died. His son had crawled into bed with him more than once during those too-silent nights. His heart clenched at the memory. He hoped it would be a very long time before either of his children felt that kind of pain again.

As Patrick settled on his side of the bed, Angela's eyes popped open. "Mumma back?"

He laid a soothing hand on her back. "Not yet, sweetheart. Soon. We'll wait."

Angela nodded, her eyes beginning to droop again, exhausted from nightmares and tears. "Wait—" she let out a wide yawn "—for Mumma." She smacked her rosebud lips and curled into the pillow, one chubby arm flung out toward her father.

Patrick kept careful watch over his daughter until her sighs settled into soft snores and her face relaxed. He wondered if Angela would always have that content look in her sleep, or if, like Shelagh, she'd develop a little frown of care between her eyebrows. Patrick did the best he could to ease his wife's worries, but he knew he could never stop her caring. That was what he loved about her. That was the reason she wasn't here now, but a few doors down, caring for the families who needed help most. She cared for the ones who didn't have anyone else to banish their nightmares.

"But no more nightmares tonight," he muttered, a brief prayer for himself and his daughter. When Angela only let out a loud snore in reply, Patrick relaxed, rolled over and turned out the light.


Shelagh Turner came home from her night shift bone-tired and ready for sleep. But she found someone else in her place in bed.

In the weak dawn light, Shelagh could make out her husband's large form hunched under the blankets. Angela lay next to him, her hair a bird's nest and her arms and legs flung wide, like a starfish. They snored in tandem, a low rumble followed by a high whistling wheeze.

She clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. Too bad she'd left the camera back at the maternity home.

Shelagh took down her hair and undressed, exchanging her uniform for a nightdress. She didn't think she could move Angela to her own bed without waking her, so she nudged her daughter until she rolled over. Angela let out a tiny mumble, but continued sleeping.

Edging into the empty space on the bed, Shelagh curled her body around Angela's. She reached over her daughter and touched Patrick's shoulder, shaking him lightly. He woke immediately, always on alert for an emergency or a ringing telephone. Shelagh held her hand to his lips and nodded toward the sleeping toddler curled between them.

"Nightmares," he whispered, his voice like a faint breath.

Shelagh gave him a gentle, teasing smile. "You're a soft touch, Patrick."

His eyes fluttered shut and he grinned. "Maybe. But you could have warned me about the squirrels."

Shelagh frowned. "Squirrels?"

Patrick yawned and settled deeper into his pillow. "I'll tell you in the morning."