I didn’t know how to read a clock then, not really. I just knew that the numbers looked sharp, like teeth.

“Mama?” I whispered.

No answer.

I slid out of bed. The linoleum floor was ice against my bare feet. I padded over to the couch where Mama had collapsed earlier. Mrs. Kowalski, our neighbor from 2B, was snoring softly in the armchair, her knitting needles resting on her chest like crossed swords. She had come down when Mama started shaking, when the ambulance came the first time, hours ago, but they hadn’t taken Mama. Mama had refused. No insurance, she had pleaded, her voice jagged. I just need to sleep.

Now, Mama was sleeping. But it was wrong.