The blue wool blanket was folded on the chair behind her, ready for the car.
“Is Grandpa coming with us?” she asked. “Does he have his suitcase?”
“He is meeting us at the clinic,” I said, opening the door to the cold morning air.
The wind from the north tasted of dry corn husks and the first hint of frost.
I helped her into the back seat, securing the buckle before she could slide down against the cushions.
The car took two tries to start, the engine turning over with a heavy, metallic groan before settling into a rough idle.
The drive to the clinic was short, past the closed grain elevator and the small brick houses with dead marigolds in their yards.
The clinic hallway smelled of lemon wax and cold air from the air conditioning vents that always ran too high in autumn.
Doctor Vance held the blue travel form against his clipboard, his black ballpoint pen hovering just above the signature line.
The paper was slightly crumpled at the corner where I had held it too tightly during the walk from the car.
“The train is twelve hours each way, Clara,” he said, looking at me over his reading glasses.
“We can break it up,” I said, keeping my hands flat on my knees so he would not see them. “We will stay in hotels if she gets tired.”
“She cannot be in public spaces without oxygen close by,” he said, and his pen did not move. “A private medical transport service would be safer, but they require a deposit up front.”
The price for private transport was four thousand dollars, which was four thousand dollars more than the balance of my checking account.
I looked down at my boots, noticing a spot of dried Indiana clay on the toe.
