I looked at Mama one last time. I couldn’t carry her. I couldn’t wake her. But I could bring help. I could go to the place where help lived.

I pushed the cart to the door. It was heavy, laden with my sister and my terror. I unlocked the deadbolt—a trick I had learned by standing on a stepstool. The door groaned open.

The wind hit me instantly. It wasn’t just cold; it was a physical assault. The Maine winter didn’t care that I was four. It didn’t care that I was scared. It just wanted to bite.

I pushed the cart out into the hallway, then to the heavy exterior door of the building. I threw my entire body weight against the bar. It clicked open.

I stepped out onto the sidewalk. The streetlights buzzed overhead, casting long, skeletal shadows. The world was vast, empty, and terrifyingly dark. I looked left, then right. I didn’t know the way. I only knew that “Downtown” was where the buildings touched the sky.

I took a breath that tasted of snow and exhaust, and I pushed. There was no turning back.

The door to the apartment building clicked shut behind me, the lock engaging with a finality that echoed in the empty street. I turned to test it, but it was immovable. I was locked out. The temperature was dropping, Emma let out a sharp cry from the cart, and down the street, a pair of headlights turned the corner, blinding and fast, heading straight for us.