8 Chapter Eight

The television murmurs in the background, on some nature channel while Shane sits at the table in the kitchen. Before him lies an array of crayons, their waxy rainbow bright against the worn wood. His legs swing off the chair as he leans over his paper, tongue tucked between his teeth as he colors. There's a deep cough from the couch just on the other side of the thin trailer wall- long, hoarse, and violent.

Shane chooses bright colors; he likes them the best. At the moment, he's drawing Cookie Monster, and the background is a rainbow. The green is too intense and clashes with the blue of the monster, but Shane likes the vivid colors. The rainbows are pretty. The television shuts off in the other room.

Shading isn't a concept Shane understands yet, so his Cookie Monster is a giant blue blob, but he doesn't care. He deems the artwork fabulous. Shane takes a pink and adds stars all over the rainbow background, humming some commercial song he got stuck in his head. There is a bit of rustling, then a few heavy footfalls. His dad appears in the doorframe, back bent with exhaustion, old quilt drawn around his shoulder, black bags under his eyes, and a reddened face.

"Shane, will you go sit in your room with Alli and Simon, please? Papa needs to go lay down," Connor says, his voice crackling and hoarse.

"Can I keep coloring, Papa?" Shane asks, gazing up at his father with furrowed brows, pink crayon clenched tightly in his fist. Connor smiles weakly and opens his mouth to speak before he breaks into a fit of coughs. The sound fractures through the still room, rough and pained. Shane stares. After the man regains his voice, he straightens up and nods, smearing away the tears that swelled from the violent coughs.

"Of course, kiddo, but I need you to come run and get me if Simon or Alli makes any sort of fuss," Connor answers, resting against the doorway for support. Shane nods, collecting his crayons and packaging them up. The wax cylinders clack together as he slots them into the box, carefully folding it shut once all crayons were safely tucked inside. The boy cradles the box and coloring pad close, delicately descending from his seat at the table and approaching his father.

"Are you sick, Papa?" Shane queries, peering up the great height, all the way to his father's face. The man crouches down and kisses his son's forehead.

"Only a little," he lies, ruffling Shane's hair. "You're so good, Shane, thank you," he murmurs, hugging his son close to his chest. The warm quilt envelops the both of them and it's dark under there. Shane breathes in the smell of the detergent on his father's clothes, hugging back with one arm as he clings to his coloring items. He can hear his dad's lungs straining, a strange raspy gurgling in his throat and upper lungs. Connor closes his eyes, brows furrowed with exhaustion and uncertainty. It's probably the flu- he has all the symptoms but they can't afford to go get an official test or any antiviral medication.

"I love you, Papa," Shane announces, closing his eyes as he hugs his father. Connor smiles with weary joy, opening his eyes and gently pulling away from his son so he can look at him. Shane has his mother's eyes, so bright with energy.

"I love you too, Shane," the man murmurs, his own blue darker, and the corners crinkled with the strain of each day. "Now, go watch your siblings. They should be sleeping. Come get me if they make a fuss," he finishes, patting Shane's shoulder and standing. They both head down the tiny hall, and Shane goes into the first bedroom, where a crib, a twin bed, and a twin mattress are crammed in, with no space between them. The boy climbs onto the edge of the twin bed, curling up in the corner against the wall and getting back to work. He hears hinges creak and the slight bump of his parent's door closing two doors down, the bathroom in between them. The trailer falls silent. Shane sits there for a moment, staring at Alli's crib before gazing at his little brother lying on the twin bed mattress on the floor.

He hears a small snort from the sleeping Simon, and he jerks from his stupor. The boy draws out his pink crayon and scribbles in some more stars, head at a tilt as he works. For an hour, the sole sound in the room is the scrabble of his crayons on the paper pad as he draws and colors.

A soft whine alerts the boy, his head flicking up as he sets his paper pad aside, creeping off of his bed, onto the mattress, and over to Simon. The toddler whines and rubs his eyes with a pudgy fist.

"Shaney, tired," Simon fusses. Shane looks around before grabbing Simon's toy, a green dino plushy. It had been Shane's when he was Simon's age, but the boy had no memory of it being in his possession. The worn fabric is still soft, and he squeezes it for a moment, appreciating it.

The five-year-old hands it to his younger brother, "Well… let's sleep," he decides, getting under the covers with his brother and grabbing his Elmo. Simon turns over and cuddles with Shane, hugging his dino close and resting his head against his older brother. Shane gets comfortable and lays back. He gently rubs Simon's back, giving him back tickles like Papa sometimes does for him.

After a bit, the toddler's breathing evens out again, and Shane stops the tickles, his arm falling flat on the mattress. The boy stares around the room, eyes drooping and boredom hazing over his mind in a slow, thick fog. Shane counts all the wood paneling on the walls as he lays there, eyelids a heavy burden on his face. He drifts off and wakes an hour later to a high-pitched whine.

Simon has rolled over in his sleep, luckily leaving Shane free. The boy clambers to his feet, trying not to disturb Simon, and goes over to the crib. He climbs up and peers through the bars at his younger sister. She is an early teether, already starting at just a few months old, and she's fussing. The infant is in a bit of pain as she throws her arms about, babbling and whining. Shane hands her the plushy they have for her, a little bear, but she doesn't bother with it, still wriggling about. Her brow is wrought in pain, and her mouth is open as her whines begin to increase in volume. Shane turns, tip-toeing out of the room, so he doesn't press too hard on Simon's mattress. He freezes at his father's door in the hallway, staring up at the doorknob. Papa's sick. Shane hears a soft whine from his sister. Papa's tired.

The boy turns, scrambling to the kitchen, opening the fridge and grabbing her teething ring. They chill it because it helps soothe her sore gums. Sprinting back as fast as he can while still being quiet, he climbs up and slips his sister her teething ring, the cold, bumpy blue band gently pressing against her forearm. She stills, head rotating and she babbles happily, but can't seem to get it up to her mouth. She keeps dropping it since her fine motor skills aren't the best right now. Shane reaches through the bars and gently plucks up the ring, guiding it to her mouth. She opens up and begins sucking and biting, her own petite hands moving to hold it in place now. Shane lets go after a moment, smiling at his younger sister.

"There you go, Alli," he whispers softly, eyes alight with love. He was a good big brother, and he was helping Papa too, cause Papa was sick and needed to sleep. His sister coos softly at him, kicking her legs as she gnaws on the ring. Shane giggles and gently runs over her head, feeling her soft, wispy hair. The boy carefully watches her, and holds a "conversation". He talks, she babbles and chews, he talks some more, she babbles and chews some more. Her bright blue eyes stare up at him, a trademark of the Byrne family.

He doesn't need to wake Papa up, he can handle this. He can help Papa and make everyone happy. Including the babbling baby smiling up at him, kicking her legs and chewing on that blue teething ring. He can help.