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“I'm not tired.”

I grunt, “That makes one of us?” I pad into the living room to snatch the remote from the coffee table. I flick the TV off and hold my hand out for hers. She slides hers into mine easily, sliding off the couch.

We walk together up the stairs and into her room. She releases my hand to run to the window. Her face is a picture of awe as she peers through the glass at the stars.

“It's so pretty, Daddy.”

I'm gonna get this girl a telescope one day.

I ignore the pounding in my head as I cross her room to peer out her window at the magic she sees. It's just a night sky, like any other night sky. But she loves it like nothing else.

For a child that loves color the way she loves color, it's amazing how much she loves the night.

“They're like diamonds,” she tells me.

I try to recall which planet from her book of planets rains diamonds, but I can't remember. That's been happening a lot lately. Memories slipping. Brain fog. Faye says its stress, but I’m not stressed.

“All right.” I tousle her wild blonde hair. “Let's get you back into bed.”

“But I'm not tired,” she protests.

“You might not be tired now, but if you don't sleep, you're going to be a monster at daycare tomorrow.”

She giggles. “I want to be a monster.”

“I don't think your teachers would appreciate that.”

“Gerald’s a monster,” she tells me, as she climbs into bed.

I raise a brow. “Is he still amputating all the baby dolls?”

“Yep,” she says matter of fact.

I consider. “Perhaps he thinks he’s a doctor. Perhaps these are life-saving measures.”

“I don’t know.” A thoughtful frown puckers her brow. She shrugs. “Maybe.”

I leave that at that, instructing, “Sleep.”

I tuck her blankets up to her chin, the boulder in my head knocking violently as I lean down to press my lips to her forehead.

“I love you, kiddo.”

I'm at her door when her little voice calls, "Daddy?”

I turn, grinding my back teeth as I will the Tylenol to kick in. “Yeah?”

“Will you lay with me? Until I fall asleep?”

I sigh. It's the last thing I want to do right now. Her bed is small, and it doesn't fit my body quite like mine.

Her pillow isn't mine…

But she's my little girl and denying her is next to impossible. So, I sigh, recross her room, and tell her to ‘scoot’. She does, without delay, and I lay next to her, listening to the drum in my brain as her breathing evens.

My entire body aches when I pull myself from her bed.

Maybe I need to call the chiropractor for a neck adjustment? Maybe that new pillow Faye bought me a few months back threw my neck out.