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

By half past one, June started whimpering again.

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

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

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

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

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