“What did you do to the cradle?”

My mother didn’t answer.

She just kept smiling as they began to lead her out of the kitchen.

Her boots squeaked on the linoleum, a sound that now sounded like a death knell.

I stood alone in the kitchen for a second, my mind spinning.

The smell of cabbage, the bright light, the empty counter.

Everything felt wrong.

“Jake!” the paramedic’s voice echoed from the stairwell.

“We are leaving now! If you’re coming, get down here!”

I shook myself out of the stupor.

I grabbed my coat and my wallet from the table.

I ran out of the apartment, leaving the door wide open.

The hallway was dark, the wooden stairs creaking under my weight as I flew down them.

I burst through the front door of the building.

The cool Chicago night air hit me like a slap to the face.

It was misting, a fine, cold rain that made the asphalt of Pilsen slick and shiny.

The ambulance was parked at the curb, its red and blue lights painting the brick walls of the neighborhood in frantic colors.