“Mommy. Mommy!” he cries, shaking, still feeling the fear from his nightmare.

His mother rushes in. “What is it, sweetheart?” She sits beside him, tucking him back in and stroking him gently.

“I had a bad dream.”

She kisses him on the forehead. “Shhhh. It’s okay, my boy. It was only a dream.” She sings him a lullaby that always brings a smile to his face. When she’s done, she says, “Go back to sleep, sweetie. You have school in the morning.”

“Mommy,” he says. “Are monsters real?”

“Oh, no, honey. Monsters aren’t real. They’re all in your imagination.”

He smiles. “Thank you, mommy. Can you ask gramma to come kiss me good night?”

“All right. Good night.” She stands up and leaves.

After a minute, his grandmother comes in and sits beside him. She gives him a kiss and a hug. “Gramma,” he says. “Mommy says monsters aren’t real. Is that true?”

Her face grows sad. She touches her arm, as though she can feel the numbers tattooed there through the sleeve. How does she tell him that, yes, monsters are real?