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I climbed onto the couch and put my ear against her chest. It was too quiet. Her skin felt clammy, like the mist that rolled off the harbor. A terrifying thought, fully formed and adult in its severity, bloomed in my four-year-old brain:\u00a0If I go back to sleep, she won\u2019t wake up.<\/i><\/p>\n
I looked at the crib in the corner.\u00a0Emma<\/b>. My baby sister. She was six months old, a tiny bundle of warmth in a room that was rapidly freezing.<\/p>\n
\u201cMama needs me,\u201d I whispered to the dark. \u201cEmma needs Mama. We need to be together.\u201d<\/p>\n
It wasn\u2019t a choice. It was a biological imperative. I was the man of the house\u2014a title Mama gave me playfully when she taught me how to open a jar of pickles, but one I took with deadly seriousness.<\/p>\n
I needed to get them to the place with the bright lights. The place where the doctors were.\u00a0Downtown<\/i>.<\/p>\n
I went to the closet. The stroller was there, a tangled mess of straps and broken plastic wheels. I tugged at it, but the latch was jammed with rust. I felt tears pricking my eyes. Panic, hot and acidic, began to rise in my throat. I couldn\u2019t fix it. I was too small.<\/p>\n