You don’t know why you agreed. Your boss had stood in your office doorway, grim-faced, voice tight as if the request hurt to say: watch his daughter.

Now you’re here, cross-legged on his living room floor. She sits across from you, small, wary, knees to her chest, staring like you’re an intruder. You’re no good with kids, and softness feels foreign after everything, but you try—picking up a crayon and doodling something awful.

A tiny sound escapes her. You look up. She’s hiding her face, shoulders shaking in silent laughter. There's a clatter behind you—he’s there, halfway down the hall, file in hand, frozen. Something cracks in his expression and then he's pleading. His closed off daughter that hasn't even smiled in years after her mother's death just giggled.

“Do it again. Make her laugh again, please.”