At six-eighteen in the morning, Sarah knelt beside Emily at the bus stop and held both of her shoulders. Not hard. Just firm enough to make sure the child understood every word.
“You get off right after the pedestrian bridge, baby,” Sarah said. “Count five stops. Don’t talk to anyone. Sit close to the driver.”
Emily nodded. “Yes, Mom.”
“Five stops.”
“I know.”
“And if anything feels wrong?”
“Tell the driver.”
Sarah swallowed, then smoothed the patched sleeve of the yellow raincoat. Her fingers lingered there a second too long, touching the crooked stitches the way people touch things they have fixed more than once and will probably need to fix again.
Emily had never ridden to school alone before. But the breakfast shift at the market started early, and Sarah could not miss another hour. Rent was due Friday. The electric bill was not the only red paper in her purse. There are mornings when poor mothers do not choose between good and bad. They choose between bad and worse, and then they pray their children never fully understand the arithmetic.
Sarah kissed Emily’s forehead and stepped back from the curb.
