 Daddy? I'm in a dreamless sleep, but I hear the word. The significance of the word escapes me. I'm exhausted. It's been months since I've had a full night's sleep. Daddy? It calls again. The word is louder now. The voice behind the word is worried and a little scared. I'm just awake enough to know that I need to wake up. I open my eyes and try to convince myself that I'm dreaming, but I know I'm not. Every night this child wakes me up. Where I sleep doesn't matter. Outdoors, hotels, hospitals. The location makes no difference at all. Somehow, she finds me. Daddy? It's a little girl's voice, high and shrill, and she's scared. Just a second. I call back. The routine is the same every night, but it doesn't get easier. How could it? How could this ever be normal? I sit up in bed and reach for my glasses. Then I stop. No glasses. It's easier if I can't see the details. I'm coming. I call again and slide into my slippers. For the hundredth time, I ask, why is this my responsibility? Why did she choose me? I'm not her father. I'm not anyone's father. My thoughts are still undisciplined. And for a moment, I think about the child's mother. It's too much. It's just too much. I feel cold. I start to shake. The shake progresses to heaving shutters, and I don't try to fight it. It's easier if my body has this time to convulse. I let my body have this small moment of rebellion before I force it to stand. My body is numb, and I am thankful. Diligently, I place one foot in front of the other. My legs are heavy. Head down. I have to focus on my steps to not fall. There is a pressure in the back of my head, and that means she can see me. I raise my head. I'm standing in the doorway of my guest room. The door is open as usual. The lamp beside the bed is on as usual. The figure is in the center of the bed, holding a stuffed bunny as usual. I kept calling, and you didn't come. The figure says, I have a hard time waking up. I say, and force myself to walk into the room. What time is it? 312. She says, the shrill of fear has gone from her voice, and I am thankful. I've started to think of it as she. It has a little girl's high voice, piercing and innocent in a way that I can't explain. How long have I thought of it as a girl? I bend down and squint at the bedside clock. 312. I say, 312. She repeats. I get that wrong sometimes. It takes practice. I'm sure you'll get it. I say, and smile down at the child. She hugs her stuffed bunny. Are you warm enough? Yes. Would you like me to get you some water? No. My throat goes rough as I ask. Is it time to go to mommy's room? Yes. She says from behind her bunny. I force myself to hold out my hand, and cool, smooth scales press gently into my palm. Then I stifle a shutter, as innumerable scaled tendrils wrap themselves around my wrist and forearm. The child's form rise as it raises from the bed. I can see the movement, but the details are blurry, and I am thankful. Could you turn on the light? She asks when we enter the hallway. Her request is so genuine. It surprises me. How could something like her be afraid of the dark? I turn on the hallway light and briefly wonder if I should purchase a flashlight for her. We walk. The child is silent. Her current form conceals much of her sharp edges and power, but occasionally a claw or a spine grazes against my leg. She is coiled and prepared to attack. It's alright. We're almost there. I try to reassure her, but her grip still tightens on my arm. We find ourselves in the kitchen. The pool of gravity is less here, and I adjust my steps into a shuffle. We are close to mommy's door. The door to mommy's room is in a different location every night. The basement, the linen closet, the couch, and a filing cabinet have all been doors to mommy's room. The shape of the door does not matter. The door has been broad, narrow, crooked, or straight. It has been curved or flat. When the door is curved or spherical, I close my eyes. It's easier that way. This night, the door to mommy's room is in the pantry. The ceiling, the food, and the walls are gone, but the floor remains. We walk forward and stand in the middle of a galaxy. My kitchen only visible through the pantry door. I remind myself that it was good that I didn't bring my glasses as I stand in the center of a blurry night sky. I feel the mother's presence. Large tentacled masses distort the light around us. The mother is a titan, a force that existed before gods, and her child is holding my hand. The child's hold loosens, and I prepare myself for what comes next. I will my muscles to relax as she wraps her small, sinuous form around me in a sharp hug. She is home, and I am thankful. Good night, daddy. She says as she peels her many limbs away from me. Good night, little one. I reply. She hands me her bunny and floats towards a riving mass of stars. I stand watch until she joins her mother. The stars fade, and I am now in the pantry surrounded by spices and cleaning supplies. I feel gravity return. I step too quickly and stumble back into the kitchen. My legs shake, and I steady myself by grasping the counter. It's just too much. I scream until I'm out of breath. Then I return to the guest room. I place the bunny on the bed and tuck it in. The child will want it when she returns. My responsibility is over for the night. Tomorrow she will wake me. I will comfort her and turn the lights on and help her be brave. Then we will walk to mommy's room, and she will leave me. We will do this again and again, night after night, until I can no longer wake up.