"Do you love me, Granny Bug?" The child sitting on the old woman's knee looked up hopefully.
"Of course I do my poppet," Granny Bug replied, smoothing down the unruly hair on the child's head. "You're my favourite."
The child snuggled closer into Granny Bug's bosom, enjoying the feeling of warmth from her body, the itchy sensations from her woollen cardigan, the smell of mothballs from her blouse. "You're not just saying that, are you?"
Granny Bug wrapped two bony arms around her charge and set her chair a-rocking. "Of course I'm not. You're my favourite." The motion of the rocking chair soothed the child, and the sound of breathing grew more regular, deeper. With a smile, the old woman began to sing. "Hush little child, don't say a word. Granny's going to buy you a little bird." As the song went on, the child squirmed on Granny's lap, puggling the old woman's skirts, and then was still.
"Asleep at last," Granny Bug said quietly. She bent down to give the child a tender kiss on the forehead. "You're my favourite." Then the old woman's eyes closed, and she too went to sleep.
A white-clad nurse opened the door of the nursery and looked in. Seeing that both the occupants of the room were asleep, he extracted the child from Granny Bug's embrace and made to carry his charge away.
The old woman stirred. Her eyes opened and she watched the nurse close the door behind him. "You're my favourite," Granny Bug said.
There was a pop and a crackle from inside the woman. Granny Bug twitched. "You're my favourite," she said again.
"You're my favourite. You're my favourite. You're my favourite."
