When she's sick, I am allowed to play and make noise. I like elephants, balloons, and butter pecan ice cream. I like it here, and she doesn't. I like riding in a wheelchair; it's fun. Everyone is so nice, even though the medicine makes me sleepy, and our room is a cold, white room, and a light in the hall is always on, but I can watch TV and play games. She won't let me use her phone, but I look at it when she's asleep. She takes pictures of the same pretty clouds and the dog. The dog is mean; I don't like him. A nurse lady was asking me questions, and she didn't wake up. I just want to curl up into the covers and pretend I am a snail. The machines in here beep and have neat glowing lights. I know not to touch them and that she'll wake up soon, and I'll go back to sleep. My dreams are happy, and hers aren't. She will feel better soon, and I will sit at the edge of the bed with the others. My hair is singed and covered in black soot because I was burned long ago. She says I am made of ash and cinder and that I'm not real. I can't speak when she does, but I am real. Every time she sleeps, I am allowed to play and pretend that I am invisible. I can also pretend that I am a cat. I pretend that I have a whole jungle of elephants and I can feed them and that we are friends.