So we just sit here in the dark while my launch window closes.”

By half past one, June started to whimper again.

It was a low, raspy sound that rattled softly in her throat.

Her face looked flushed and dark red under the harsh overhead fluorescent tubes.

I stood up from the vinyl chair, holding her upright against my shoulder, and began walking slowly toward the hallway near the vending machines.

The air near the double glass entrance doors was cooler, carrying a cold draft of rain from the parking lot.

I swayed from side to side as I walked past the row of snack dispensers, humming an old lullaby my mother used to sing to me on rainy afternoons in Oak Park.