Then, I saw it.

In the back corner, behind the vacuum cleaner, was the metal shopping cart Mama used for laundry. It was cold, industrial, and sturdy. It smelled of detergent and the metallic tang of the city.

I dragged it out. The wheels squeaked—a deafening shriek in the quiet room. I froze, looking at Mrs. Kowalski. She shifted, murmured something about her cat, and sank back into sleep.

I moved with the frantic precision of a soldier behind enemy lines. I grabbed the duvet from my bed—the one with the stars on it—and lined the metal grate of the cart. I took the pillow. Then, I went to the crib.

Emma was heavy for me. I had to stand on my tiptoes, leveraging my small chest against the rail, scooping her up with a grunt. She stirred, letting out a soft whimper.

“Shhh, Emma,” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. “We’re going on an adventure.”

I lowered her into the cart, nesting her among the stars of the duvet. She settled, sucking her thumb.

I put on my sneakers. I didn’t check if they were on the right feet. I just shoved my heels in, leaving the laces dragging. I grabbed my coat—the puffy blue one with the zipper that always stuck halfway up.