Piper lay very still.
The room was dark. The hallway light made a long yellow stripe under the door. And something — something — was under the bed.
"Dad," Piper whispered.
Dad came in. He had his big flashlight, the silver one that was heavy and cold.
"Under the bed," Piper said.
Dad got down on his knees. He clicked the flashlight on. A bright white circle slid across the floor, under the dust ruffle, into the dark underneath place.
"Hmm," said Dad.
"Is it a tiger?" said Piper.
Dad pulled out one sock. One fuzzy sock with stripes.
"Not a tiger," he said. He pulled out a crayon. A green one, missing its paper.
"Not a tiger," said Piper.
He pulled out a book, a dust bunny, and half a cracker.
"No tigers," said Dad. He sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped and Piper rolled a little toward him. "Zero tigers."
He kissed Piper's forehead. He put the flashlight on the nightstand — clunk — and he left.
The room got dark again.
The yellow stripe was still there, under the door. The flashlight was still there, big and silver.
And the feeling was still there. Right under the bed.
Piper grabbed the flashlight. It was so heavy she needed both hands. She clicked it on and aimed it at the ceiling, and a moon appeared up there, round and white.
"Okay," Piper said out loud. "I'm going to count."
She pointed the light at the door.
"One. The door is closed. Tigers can't open doors. They don't have thumbs."
She pointed the light at the window.
"Two. The window is shut. And we live on the second floor. Tigers can't climb ladders."
She pointed the light at the closet.
"Three. Dad already looked in there Tuesday. And Wednesday. And also today."
She pointed the light at the floor. At the sock, the crayon, the book, the dust bunny, the half cracker.
"Four. There is not enough room under there for a tiger. There is only room for stuff."
The flashlight beam wobbled. Piper held it tighter.
"Five." She thought hard. "Five. Tigers are very big. If a tiger was in this room, I would hear it breathing."
She held her own breath.
She listened.
The house hummed. The fridge downstairs buzzed. A car went by outside, slow and soft.
No breathing. No growling. No big, padded paws.
"Five reasons," Piper said. "Five whole reasons and zero tigers."
She put the flashlight under the covers with her. It made a warm, glowing tent. Her blanket turned into a sky — a white-yellow sky with hills and mountains where her knees and toes poked up.
"Six," she whispered, because she thought of one more. "Six. If there was a tiger, it's been under there a really long time and it never once bit my foot. So maybe it's a nice tiger. And nice tigers you don't even have to count."
She laughed. A little laugh, the kind that's mostly air.
She rolled over. The flashlight rolled too, heavy and warm against her belly. The tent of light shifted and swayed.
She pointed it at the dust ruffle one more time. The fabric glowed. She could see the sock under there, the half cracker, the dust bunny — soft and gray and still.
"Goodnight, no tigers," Piper said.
She clicked the flashlight off.
Dark again. But a different dark. A softer dark. The kind you can breathe in.
The dust bunny didn't move. The cracker didn't move. The green crayon without its paper didn't move.
And Piper closed her eyes, warm and brave, and fell asleep.
