Janet awakes early, as she always does. From her room come the sounds of toys being removed from shelves and toy box. I know exactly what she’s doing: left to herself, her morning routine never varies.

I lie in bed, listening. Nicole lies beside me. I can tell from the set of her back and shoulders that she’s awake.

“Do you want to give Janet her breakfast this morning?” I ask quietly, but Nicole doesn’t respond. I touch her lightly but she flinches.

“I’ll do it,” I say to her.

I get up, and put on my bath robe. On my way to the kitchen, I stop at Janet’s bedroom door. Her toys, all of them as nearly as I can tell, are on the floor in several neat rows. She arranges them the same way every morning. I have seen this room, organized this way, every day for the last four years.

“Janet, what do you want for breakfast?”

“Muffin,” she says, without looking up.

Of course. “We don’t have any.”

“Muffin.”

“It’ll take a little while,” I respond.

“Okay,” she says, a little blankly.