I slipped Caleb’s little yellow slippers onto his feet and helped him swing his legs off the tall mattress.

At five fifty-eight we walked together down the long pediatric hallway toward the main glass entrance.

Caleb gripped my hand hard, his green dinosaur blanket tucked under his right arm like a rolled-up newspaper.

The sliding glass doors opened with a soft gust of cold air as a stranger in a gray hoodie came in from the outside lot.

He held a brown paper bag from the gas station across Elm Street, his eyes on the floor as he headed for the main elevators.

Chilly autumn air blew through the gap, blending the sharp smell of hospital sanitizer with burnt coffee from the lobby kiosk.