Chapter 8: Terms

June's fever came up at two in the morning on the Wednesday after court.

It hit a hundred and four by the time I found the thermometer, and she would not wake properly.

Bea was working a night shift at the hospital, and she didn't pick up.

Outside, the storm had been coming down on Munjoy Hill since midnight.

The street was a river, and I didn't own a car.

I stood at the window with my daughter hot and limp against my shoulder, and I looked at the black truck under the streetlight.

The engine was off.

The shape behind the windshield hadn't moved since ten.

I did not think about it.

I put on my coat, wrapped June in a blanket and went down the stairs in my socks.

I knocked on the driver's window with my knuckles.

Winslow opened his eyes.

He had been asleep, sitting up with his head back, and he came awake all at once.

He looked at the blanket and his face went white.

"What's wrong with her?"

"She's burning up. I can't reach Bea. I need the ER."

"Get in."

He didn't ask me anything else.

I climbed into the passenger seat with June across my lap, and he pulled out before I'd shut the door.

He drove one-handed through water up to the hubcaps.

The other hand, wrapped to the wrist, lay on top of the wheel, taking weight it shouldn't have.

I could see what it cost him every time the truck bumped.

The muscle at his jaw jumped.

He said nothing about it.

"Hold her head still," he said. "Don't let it roll."

"I know how to hold my daughter."

"I know you do."

We went through two red lights.

At the third, on the empty bridge, I said it.

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