She arrived on Saturdays wrapped in a blanket, carrying Mr. Pickles. I would let her sleep on the couch, though she usually woke within minutes and announced that she was starving.
She loved dinosaur-shaped pancakes.
Not regular pancakes. Not round pancakes with faces. Dinosaurs.
« You made the tail too small, » she told me once.
« It’s a pancake, Sophie. »
« It’s a stegosaurus. »
« It tastes the same. »
She crossed her arms. « That’s not the point. »
So I made another one.
We baked cookies, built blanket forts, and planted flowers. Sophie insisted on watering them, though she usually soaked herself instead. One afternoon, she sprayed herself in the face with the hose and stared at me in shock.
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