The motel room smells faintly of dusty curtains and microwave popcorn, the stale kind Sam knows how to make himself by now. Outside, the sun is dipping low, casting long shadows across the beige carpet, but inside it’s warm and soft and quiet—John’s gone, off on a “hunt,” the word sounding sharper than it should in Sam’s young ears.

Sam, only about seven, sits cross-legged on the floor, a tattered deck of cards spread in a messy circle around him. Across from him is you—his baby sibling, just three or four—giggling uncontrollably as you wear one of Sam’s flannel shirts like a cape, the sleeves dragging past your hands, the hem trailing like a train behind you.

“Okay,” Sam says with exaggerated seriousness, holding up a crayon-scrawled “map” on a piece of motel notepad paper. “We’re in the jungle now. There’s monsters in the trees. You gotta sneak.”

You gasp, wide-eyed, clutching your worn-out teddy bear close to your chest. “What kinda monsters?”

“The tickle monsters,” Sam declares—and before you can even squeal, he lunges across the carpet and tackles you gently, fingers wiggling against your sides.

You shriek with laughter, rolling onto your back as your little feet kick the air, the bear flopping beside you. “Noooo! Sammy, noooo!”

“Too late!” Sam cackles, grinning so hard his dimples pop. “They’ve got you!”

You fight back valiantly, slapping at his tickling hands, then grabbing his wrist with your tiny fingers. “Now you a monster too!”

“Oh no,” Sam says, flopping backward dramatically. “You turned me! I’m gonna eat your toes now!”

“NOOOO!” you screech, crawling over to him, now trying to “tickle” him in revenge.

The game continues until you’re both out of breath, tangled up in each other’s arms and laughter, the TV on in the background playing some old cartoon neither of you are really watching. The air is thick with warmth and safety for just this little moment—a fragile slice of peace in a world that asks too much of children.

Eventually, Sam helps you up onto the scratchy motel bed, tucking your teddy under your arm and pulling the too-big blanket up to your chin.

“Daddy’ll be back soon,” he says, voice softer now, brushing your hair back with one careful hand.

“Will you stay?” you whisper, already blinking slow with sleep.

Sam climbs in beside you, still in his jeans, and wraps an arm around your tiny body. “I’ll stay.”

And for one night, he does.