Thomas lay on his bed, absorbed in what was happening inside him. It had been almost dark when Giselle brought the package. Now the streetlight shone in the window. He wasn’t good at counting minutes the way Martin was. He had heard his father’s voice on the phone, the front door open and close, and voices in the hall. Then silence.

“It is dark already,” he said aloud as he ran his fingers over his belly. The cracks were traveling. They didn’t hurt. The shells were like a fingernail. It didn’t hurt when you trimmed your nails; just as it hadn’t hurt when the cracking began.

Thomas lay very still, paying close attention, until he heard a knock on his door.

It was Mrs. Sharp. “Thomas, are you awake? I’ve brought you a cup of chamomile tea.”

Thomas sat up and took the teacup. He sipped to be polite but was surprised to find that he liked the sweet taste.

“Your father is meeting your aunt at the police station. Would you like me to fix you some dinner?” she asked.

“I’m not hungry,” Thomas whispered, sipping a bit more. Butterflies liked sugar water.

Mrs. Sharp pulled out his desk chair and set it near the bed, pressing her knees into his comforter as she sat.

“Why are you holding your stomach? Are you in pain?”

Thomas shook his head. “My mother has disappeared,” he told Mrs. Sharp, setting down the teacup and taking sips of breath instead.

“I know.” Mrs. Sharp took Thomas’s hand and squeezed it. “We are all very concerned.”

“I should be out looking for her,” he said. He closed his eyes and lay back down.

“I know you want to, dear, but it’s best to let the police handle it. They are very good at their jobs.” Thomas felt Mrs. Sharp’s hands tucking the covers around him. “What’s this package?”

“It’s from Giselle. She brought it over. Just before…I had to lie down.”

“Would you like me to open it?”

Thomas nodded. He listened to Mrs. Sharp untying string, to the crinkle of brown paper. The paper fell to the floor.

Then there was no sound. Mrs. Sharp was waiting for him.

Thomas opened his eyes and as he struggled to sit up, she reached behind him to arrange his pillows so he could lean against them. Then she handed him a big spiral-bound notebook with drawings all over the front: houses, animals, birds, flowers. There was a lemony yellow sun in the sky as big as a tennis ball. Giselle had used fancy stencils to make the title, just like the ones they had in art class: “The Big Book of Laughter and Happy Things.”

“Do you want to see what’s inside?”

Thomas nodded. He had no idea what Giselle would put inside.

Flipping through the pages, Mrs. Sharp said: “It appears to be blank. It must be for you to fill with drawings.”

Thomas yawned, wondering if the sudden rush of air would affect his butterflies.

“Can butterflies migrate even if it’s cold outside?”

“I’ve no doubt they find their way.”

After Mrs. Sharp left, and his father and Aunt Sadie came in to kiss him good-night, Thomas crept out of bed and opened his window a crack. Just in case.

The next morning the heaviness in his stomach was gone and he felt sure that the butterflies had been born and found their way, like Mrs. Sharp said.

All but one. One butterfly had wanted to stay. Thomas could feel something dry and papery, like wings unfolding. Though it wasn’t an obvious choice, he named his butterfly Dave.