I looked past her toward the far end of the asphalt lot, where the larger utility vehicles were parked.
My brother, Gage, was sitting in the driver’s seat of his sedan, his profile illuminated by the pale blue light of his mobile phone.
He did not look toward the building, nor did he make any movement to assist the shivering children standing in their socks on the sidewalk.
“He promised you a console for that?” I asked, keeping my voice within a standard professional register.
“The high-definition one with the wireless controllers,” Sailor said, her finger still winding the blonde hair tight.
“And did he tell you how to make him cry?” I asked.
“He said the red lever by the party room doesn’t have a lock on it,” she said.
I turned back toward the glass entrance of the park, where the strobe lights of the first responding unit were already turning the brick wall orange.
Nestor Alvarez, the manager of the facility, was standing by the concrete barrier with a walkie-talkie in his hand.
He was forty-five, wearing a black polo shirt with the company logo embroidered in gold thread.
