Juan pulls the quilt over his nose, breathing slow and careful. A small head and a stuffed bear squeeze through the open doorway. His sister drags the bear to his pillow and slips under the quilt.
"Mama, she's in again," he whispers into the fabric. She pokes his shoulder, refusing to leave. They both peek out from the quilt's edge at a dark shape crouching on the far wall.
On the far wall, a dark shape shifts, two pointed ears catching the lamp's glow. Juan presses the quilt flat against his chest while his sister squeezes the bear's floppy ear until it creaks.
"What is it?" she breathes. The shadow tilts its head while Juan counts to three before he can make himself look again. He lifts the quilt just a finger-width.
The shadow has stretched long across the floor, all four legs bent as if about to lunge. He whips the quilt back over both their faces; in the black, his sister's hand finds his and stays.
Then the shadow sits back down, shakes its tail, and wags. Juan hurls the quilt open and the living-room lamp blinks to full, revealing the source of the noise.
There's the big dog trotting to the window, thumping its tail on the hardwood — thud, thud, thud — while the shadow on Juan's wall thumps in perfect time.
Juan lets out a startled, whooshing laugh; his sister dumps the bear on the floor and claps her small hands. "It's Biscuit!" she says, pointing through the doorway.
The dog licks its nose, yawns wide, and pads back toward its bed. Juan and his sister sit up, the quilt folded to their waists, watching Biscuit's shadow stretch and shrink on the wall.
The hallway light hums its low buzz; his sister tucks the bear between them, and Juan pats its matted wool. The dark is still there, but it's got a new sound in it.
