My mother began to cry.
She held on to a woman she’d never met before, standing in the middle of a hospital parking lot, because neither of them knew what else to do.
Moose secured the car seat into its base.
That’s when I noticed the price tag again.
It was still attached to the handle.
Ray followed my gaze.
“Kayla bought it at the Walmart on Route 9 about two weeks ago,” he explained. “She brought it to my shop and told me to keep it in my truck.”
He paused.
“She said I might need it.”
Just in case.
My sister had bought the car seat her daughter would use to leave the hospital.
She had made arrangements for a future she wouldn’t live to see.
I grabbed the side mirror of the Suburban to steady myself.
Before they left, Ray handed me an envelope.
My name was written across the front in Kayla’s familiar, oversized handwriting.
