My five-month-old brother Tommy was shivering so hard his small knees knocked against my collarbone.
Aunt Evelyn did not look down at him; she was staring at the face of her gold-plated wristwatch under the yellow glare of the pharmacy sign on the corner of Oakridge Avenue.
The rain had soaked through the shoulders of my thin wool jacket, making the dark fabric heavy and sour.
Behind my collar, the sharp plastic corner of my mother’s laminated nurse ID card scratched against my skin every time I took a breath.
“Wait right here under the dry part, Sylvie, and do not move,” Evelyn said.
She pointed to a three-foot patch of grey concrete where the pharmacy awning was not completely torn.
The wind caught the loose edge of the canvas above us, making a wet, heavy flapping sound that echoed down the quiet street.
“My feet are wet,” I said, looking down at my red canvas shoes.
“The car heater will be warm in a minute,” she said, her voice rising over the sound of a passing delivery truck.
She adjusted the strap of her heavy leather purse, her fingers twitching against the metal buckle.
I hugged Tommy tighter, trying to keep his small head tucked under my chin where the wind could not reach him.
He was wearing his yellow sleeper, but the cuffs were already damp from the mist.
“Is mother coming to the car too?” I asked.
Evelyn stopped looking at her watch and stared out at the street.
“Your mother is resting, Sylvie,” she said.
She did not look at me when she said it.
She had been saying that for three days, ever since the men in the blue uniforms had carried the metal gurney out of our hallway.
I wanted to ask her why we had to leave our house in such a hurry, with only two grocery bags of clothes sitting in her trunk.
But Evelyn was already stepping out into the drizzle, her high heels making a sharp clicking sound on the wet pavement.
“Keep that blanket over his ears,” she called back over her shoulder.
