A car was parked under the dead branches of an oak tree at the corner.

Its headlights were off, but I could see the exhaust curling up into the freezing air.

I pulled the curtain shut and walked back downstairs.

Jennifer was waiting by the door, her briefcase in one hand and her car keys in the other.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Ready,” I said.

We walked out into the cold, the wind biting at my cheeks as I locked the heavy oak door behind us.

The drive to Molly’s house was quiet, the snow falling in heavy, silent sheets across the highway.

When we arrived, Molly opened the door before I could even ring the bell.

She pulled me into a tight hug, her wool sweater smelling like lavender and baby lotion.

“She’s still asleep,” Molly whispered, pointing toward the living room.

I walked over to the portable crib and looked down at Ivy.

She was curled on her side, her tiny chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm.

For the first time in days, I felt like I could breathe.