“They’re a little pink, but they’re warm,” the mother murmured, her tone thick with unshed tears that she was fighting to keep out of her voice. “Now put these on. Pull them all the way up to your knees. There. Now get inside the purple sleeping bag.”
“Are you coming in, Mommy?”
“In a minute, honey. I have to secure the corners of the tarp so the wind doesn’t blow our roof away. Close your eyes. Say your prayers.”
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“Can I pray for Daddy?”
A long, devastating silence hung inside the steel container—a silence so heavy that even the howling wind on Route 30 seemed to recede into the distance.
“You can always pray for Daddy, Chloe,” the mother whispered, her voice cracking into that fragile, broken register of an ancient wound. “You tell him we’re doing fine. You tell him we’re together. And you tell him… you tell him I’m keeping my promise.”
