Ruth’s voice whispers to me from across the room. I sit up on my elbows and shake my head no, then hold my finger up to my mouth. Ruth throws her covers back and waits for me to nod, giving her permission to tiptoe across the room and crawl into my twin bed with me. “Don’t wake Sarah,” I whisper. Our little sister is passed out on her tummy, her arm dangling off the edge of her bed and her sad, little stuffed sheep named Sheepie wedged under her face. Ruth slips into the bed next to me, and we both turn on our sides to face each other. Ruth and me, we’re the snugglers and the cuddlers in my family. My dad gives us pats on the head, and my mom doles out brief hugs and fast kisses in quick succession—after all, there are so many of us to hug and kiss. But when Ruth was around two or three and I was six or seven, she’d have a bad dream or couldn’t drift off and I’d roll over in the middle of the night to find her sweet face peering up at me from the side of my bed, her hands gripping the edge of the mattress in hopes that I’d invite her in.
