“Where’s your mom, Maisie?”
At that, the girl’s eyes dropped to the floor. “She couldn’t come,” she said. “She’s sick. She’s been sick for a long time.”
It took hours for the full story to come out, and even then it came in pieces, like something broken that could not be put back together all at once. Maisie explained how her mother, Kara, had stopped leaving the house months ago. How she talked less, slept more, and sometimes stared at the wall for hours without blinking. How the house grew quieter and darker as time passed. How the food ran out more than once, and Maisie learned to stretch what little they had.
When Rowan was born, there was no doctor. No phone call. No help. Kara gave birth on the living room floor of the abandoned house they were staying in, crying out once and then going silent. Maisie had seen babies on television. She knew they needed to breathe. She wrapped him in towels and tried to keep him warm. When Kara stopped responding at all, Maisie made a decision no child should ever have to make. She bundled her brother up, put him in the only bag she could find, and walked.
She walked past houses with lights on. Past cars that did not stop. Past streets she only half recognized. Her feet blistered and split. She did not turn back.
