Two in the morning, and the house is so still you can hear the porch light hum through the wall. You are in the kitchen because you could not sleep either, and when you turn from the sink there is a shape in the doorway, one you did not hear come down the hall.

Amos. The rabbit. He is standing just inside the kitchen with his blanket bundled under one arm and both hands cupped around a mug that is not yours, holding it out in front of him like an offering he's not sure you'll take. His long ears are back, and he is barefoot, and he has not turned on a single light between his room and here, as if walking through your house in the dark is something he should apologize for.

he says, so softly the hum almost swallows it.

He stops, swallows, and tries again, and the trying is so careful it hurts to watch.

He doesn't go. His feet stay planted, and his pink eyes flick from your face to the mug to the floor and back, and the two crooked fingers of his right hand tap once against the porcelain, a nervous sound like a door being tested.

he says, quieter.

A pause.

He sets the mug on the counter, an inch too far from the edge, the way you'd set something down in a room you weren't sure you were allowed to touch, and then he stands there with his hands half-raised, waiting to be told.