The car backed out of the space slowly, its tires crunching over the gravel at the edge of the asphalt.
She did not look back through the rear window as she turned toward the exit lane.
I watched the blue sedan slide into the line of traffic on Oakridge Avenue, its yellow headlights disappearing behind a city bus.
“She is just finding a better spot,” I told Tommy, though his eyes were closed.
He let out a small, wet sneeze against my collar.
The wind blew a gust of freezing rain sideways, hitting my face like tiny needles.
The green wool blanket wrapped around Tommy was turning black from the water.
I looked down at my red shoes, which were now completely dark and heavy.
Inside my collar, the laminated edge of the nurse card pressed into my throat as I squeezed my brother closer.
The card had my mother’s picture on it, her hair tied back in the same neat way she wore it when she worked.
