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Shelagh could feel the fog of exhaustion drift back as she slowly woke. There was a sound she recognized tapping in her head, a sound she couldn’t ignore, and the last mists of sleep evaporated. She sat up, confused, and pushed her hair from her face.

A gentle tap at the door set her to action. In the bright moonlit room, she reached for her nightgown and slipped it over her head. She moved from the warm bed and shimmied the fabric down the length of her body, and frowned at the complicated garment. It was pretty, but it was a bit ridiculous.

“Mum?” she heard Timothy’s voice come through the crack of the door.

“Coming,” she whispered back. She padded in her bare feet across the room and opened the door.

Timothy stood before her, holding his small sister by the hand. In the dim light he was all angles, and even without her glasses Shelagh could see the boy was asleep on his feet. A sniffle from somewhere around the level of his knee drew her attention.

“There, there,” Shelagh crooned, kneeling before her teary daughter. She pushed Angela’s tangled hair back from her damp cheeks. “Did my little monkey have trouble sleeping?”

“I tried to settle her, but she only wanted you. Sorry, Mum, I know you must be tired after today.” Tim’s newly deepening voice rumbled in a way that recalled his father’s.

Shelagh wrapped her arms around Angela, then stood. “That’s alright, Timothy. I’ve got her now. You go back to sleep.”

He accepted her kiss, then turned back to his own room.

Shelagh closed the door and carried Angela over to the small desk in the corner. Deftly, she poured a small drink of water and watched as the little girl noisily gulped it down. She hoped she wouldn’t regret this break from the “no drinks after bedtime” rule  before morning.

Angela finished her water, and handed back the glass with a satisfied “Aaah!”

Shelagh giggled. “Whisper voice, sweetheart! Everyone’s sleeping.” She glanced over at her husband, who was, in fact, sound asleep. Shelagh rolled her eyes. She envied his ability to sleep through so much. Only the ring of the phone could stir him once he was asleep, an odd trait that had enabled him to miss many night-time child visits and feedings. She hated to wake him, but she would have to.

“Patrick,” her voice rose ever so slightly. She squeezed  his foot through the bedcovers. “Patrick, I need you to wake up for a moment.”

He woke suddenly, upright in an instant.

“It’s alright, dearest, no need to worry. You’ll need to dress for visitors.” She pushed his pyjamas through the opening in the netting.

“What’s wrong?’ he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“Angela’s been upset. I’ll bring her to the lav, you get dressed. We’ll be back in a jiffy.” The door closed behind her, her husband’s grunts of mild disapproval making her smile.

When they returned a few minutes later, a pyjama-clad Patrick had the bed straightened and the pillows set for the new sleeping arrangement.

“I suppose it was a rough day for everyone,” he agreed. He lifted the girl into his arms. Angela’s head nuzzled in the crook of his neck, then popped up. “Bizkit’s a monkey, Daddy,” she whispered.

“Yes, Biscuit’s a sleeping monkey, Angela. If we bring you into bed with us, will you sleep, too?”

The blonde head tucked itself back in place. “S’eeping  now, Daddy.” She pretended to snore.

They slipped into well-rehearsed positions, and in moments, Angela had fulfilled her promise.

“It doesn’t seem quite fair how she can do that,” Patrick whispered through a yawn. “Tell me about the delivery.”

Shelagh curved her body around Angela and slipped her toes under his calves to warm. Worry over the unexpected visit from DuPlessis and his men shifted attention away from Shelagh’s first call off the mission grounds, and they had yet to discuss it.

“The baby needed quite a bit of convincing, but we finally turned her right. Poor Thembe must have been in such terrible pain. You know, Patrick, they used the same tricks so many of our mothers in Poplar use to keep from making too much noise. It’s quite funny how similar the fundamentals are when you think about it. Thousands of miles apart, and yet we’re all still the same.”

“I thought that during the war; no matter where a soldier was from, he always had the same requests. Send love to his girl, ask his father to be proud. Here too, I suppose.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was pained.

“How did you get her to trust you, Shelagh?”

Shelagh chose her words carefully. This wasn’t a tender ego talking. Trust was integral to a doctor’s practice. Without it, Patrick could not help anyone, including himself.

“It was Umakhulu–the grandmother. The thought of losing her girl was impossible, and they were just desperate enough to give me a try. But there was something else, Patrick. Myra told them I was a mother, too; that I had a little girl of my own. It made me a little less strange, somehow, and they let their fear of me go.”

Patrick sighed heavily as he considered her words. After a moment he turned to his side to face her and brushed his hand lightly along the curve of her hip. “You should sleep, my love. We can talk in the morning.”

She nodded as weariness began to overtake her. “We’ll find a way, Patrick. I know we will.”

As the night slipped into silence, an idea began to form.