“I told her,” Lily whispered, her voice cracking. “I told her I needed the shot. She told me to stop being dramatic.”
She closed her eyes, the plastic mask fogging with each small, uneven breath she took. The rhythmic beep of the monitor beside her bed was the only sound in the small room.
“Stay here with the nurse for just a little while,” I said, kissing her cool forehead. “I need to go get your backpack from Evelyn’s house. I will be right back.”
Lily nodded, her small fingers slowly releasing their grip on my hand but holding tighter to the rabbit’s ear.
The gravel driveway of Mrs. DeLuca’s house was wet from the persistent Seattle mist. Evelyn DeLuca, our sixty-eight-year-old neighbor, was standing on her covered wooden porch, wearing her faded blue denim apron.
She was holding Lily’s pink backpack by its top handle.
“Sarah,” Evelyn said, her gravelly voice dropping to a low, cautious murmur as she stepped toward me. “I was just about to call you again.”
“What happened, Evelyn?” I asked, stepping under the shelter of the porch roof.
