Your throat tightens.
“No,” you whisper to the babies, though you are not sure if you mean them or yourself. “No. I’m not leaving you here.”
The basket is heavier than you expect.
The rain has made the handles slick, and you nearly drop it before getting a better grip. You look ridiculous trying to carry it, seven years old and all elbows and determination, clutching wet daisies in one fist and three rich-looking babies in the other. But you do not stop.
You take side streets. Alleyways. The narrow path behind the laundromat where the stray cats sleep on dryer vents. Every dark sedan makes you nervous. Every parked car feels like it might suddenly open and spill out adults with bad intentions.
Voir la suite sur la page suivante:
