
The crib went away this morning, little one, and a big bed came in its place. All day it was the most exciting thing in the house. You jump on it. You show it to everybody. But now the light is low, the room is quiet, and only now do you notice: there are no rails. None. And in the crib they were there every single night until tonight. You lie in the middle, and in that whole bed there is only you.

'I'll sort this out,' says Grow. 'We'll put the rails back.' Grow stacks pillows along one edge; the pillows slide off. Grow stretches a blanket between two chairs; the blanket lands on Grow's head. Then Grow lies down along the edge and goes stiff. 'I am a rail.' Grow rolls off the bed with a thud. From the floor comes: 'The rail has fallen.'

Grow climbs back up, all rumpled. 'I can't make it smaller.' 'It doesn't need to be smaller,' you say, and it surprises you that you know that. 'The problem isn't that it's big.' Grow tilts one ear. 'It isn't?' 'It's that there is nobody in it but me. In the crib the rail decided where my edge was. Now nobody decides.'

'Then you decide,' says Grow quietly. And you do. One side goes against the wall, and that is the first edge. Along the open side you lay the old crib blanket, as long as you are, and that is the second. Grow gets the spot by your shoulder, and that is the third. The blanket still smells of the crib. The bed does not shrink by a single millimetre, but suddenly it has edges, and you know every one of them by heart.

You lie down inside your own edges. Wall on one side, blanket on the other, Grow at your shoulder. The bed is still enormous, it is just not empty any more. 'So, little one,' Grow asks, already sleepy, 'did we grow a little today?' You did. 'Here is your little grow for tomorrow,' says Grow. 'Before you sleep, decide where your edges are tonight. Three is enough.' See you tomorrow, little one.
