"Maybe," Leo said, setting down his mug. He knelt beside her, his voice a low, cozy rumble. "Or maybe the rain is the sky's way of telling the earth, 'Hey, take it easy today. Stay in your pajamas. Drink something warm.'"

He carried her to the window seat, where a small radio was playing a soft, jazzy tune. He poured her a tiny cup of warm milk with a dollop of honey, and handed her a pancake shaped like a lopsided bear.

His daughter, Maya, appeared in the doorway, her hair a wild mess of sleep-tousled curls. She was wrapped in a blanket like a tiny, grumpy burrito. She squinted at the grey light filtering through the window.

"It's still night," she mumbled, rubbing her eyes.