Charles didn't know what to think. The heat on his cheeks hurt too much, but he didn't like it when the flame disappeared. Jenny was the one holding the camera. She told him that they could all share the candle. It was one flame for the entire group. A moppet party, dad called it, because it was not their birthday.

Mom was sick. Charles could only think of that. She'd pale cheeks and skin stretched over her face, and her hair tangled and black and her mouth a gaping, gawping hole. She didn't even recognize any of them when they'd come in to see her.

Agnes had the cake for them when they came home. It was Jenny's idea. They even lit the candle with a Zippo, much fanfare, even had presents for everyone.

Christmas was a week ago.

Charles was not going to enjoy this. The rest of them, they ate the cake, they took pieces with their hands because Dad said they didn't have to use forks. It's fun that way! Come on guys! Come on!

Charles sat back, staring at Jenny, more than anything. She'd been the last one to see Mom. She was the one who'd come running, screaming, her cheeks sweating and red, and she'd led them to the fallen ladder, Mom tangled underneath it.

Mom wasn't going to be better. He knew that.

Jenny never once apologized. There was nothing to apologize for, Dad said. He'd hugged him, his Dad-smell like spices and oranges, and he'd kissed the top of his head and his arms were strong and hard. Charles wanted to feel safe in them.

When he went to bed that night he heard the footsteps going down the hallway to Dad's room. He clamped the pillow over his face, and imagined the candle burning over Mom's forehead, and he imagined Jenny pursing her lips to blow it out.