I would sneak upstairs and swipe our gallon of half-eaten oreo and one of those tin containers of chocolate syrup. I would pour the syrup into the gallon carton and eat it, and when I finished that, lick the insides of the syrup tin, sitting on the cool ceramic floor with my back against the refrigerator, sliding my big toe up and down the in-between spots in the tile, the part that gets dirtier. I would tip-toe back downstairs wary of the sleeping house and step on the left of the middle stair, the creaky one, like Edgar, so no one would hear me. I didn't want them to know I never slept, but especially didn't want them to realize my pain was only weakness, when I told them I felt too bad to go to school the next day. They labored to figure out what I needed, and never truly decided I don't think. Now I'm too old to share with them, but maybe that's because they never figured it out. I just wanted, and want, them to do what I couldn't.