The radiator in the kitchen corner gave three sharp, metallic clangs, then settled into a low, dry hiss that did not warm the room.
I held the plastic syringe at eye level, squeezing the plunger until exactly four milliliters of the pink liquid remained in the cylinder.
Sophie sat opposite me, her index finger tracing slow, invisible circles on the yellow formica table.
Her breathing was a shallow, rhythmic whistle that I had learned to measure against the ticking of the wall clock.
I reached across the table to smooth down the hem of her blue wool cardigan, which had begun to fray at the left hip.
“Will the ocean be louder than the train?” she asked. “Will it have big boats?”
“It will be very quiet,” I said, sliding the small plastic cup toward her. “Drink this first.”
She did not reach for the cup, her finger continuing its circular path across the gray scratch in the laminate.
The bottle of saline drops from the pharmacy had cost eight dollars yesterday, and the receipt was still lying on the counter next to a grocery flyer listing regular gas at three dollars and forty cents a gallon.
I checked the kitchen clock, noting that we had forty minutes before our appointment with Doctor Vance.
“Can we bring some of the water back in a jar?” she asked. “Will it stay blue?”
“We can try,” I said, though my mind was on the calendar hanging by the refrigerator, where the date of October fifteenth was circled in red marker.
That was our travel clearance window, and it was closing in twelve days.
Sophie picked up the cup with both hands, her fingers pale against the plastic, and drank the dose in one swallow.
I wiped a drop of pink medicine from the corner of her mouth with my thumb.
“Let us get your shoes,” I said.
She stood up slowly, her knees catching the edge of the table as she leaned weight onto her thin legs.
I knelt to double-knot her sneakers, my own hands feeling stiff from the autumn draft that crept under the kitchen door.
