Page 93 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
I look at my phone and put it face down.
I tell myself I will call Nico after I sleep.
I put the test back where I hid it and close the drawer like that will hold everything in place.
Morning comes fast.
I dress for the early shift and pull on my coat.
The air in the hallway is cold.
When I step onto the street, the sky is still gray.
I lock the door and turn toward the avenue.
The dark SUV is back.
Same lot, same angle, one block down with the lights off.
If I were anyone else, I could call it a coincidence.
I stand for a full count of ten and watch the windshield.
No movement.
No door.
Just the shape of a car that has nowhere better to be.
I pull my hood up and start walking.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I don't look yet.
I keep the SUV in the corner of my eye and count my steps to the corner, slow and even, the way I do when I need a patient to breathe.
At the bodega, Mr. Leon is dragging crates of oranges onto the sidewalk.
He is shorter than the stack and twice as stubborn.
His radio plays old love songs in Spanish.
He sees me and squints at my face the way grandfathers do when they don’t want to use the word worried.
“You are too pale,” he announces. “You need ginger. I have ginger.”
“I do need ginger,” I say.
My voice sounds better when I use it for errands. “The chews you keep near the gum.”
He points with a chin. “Second shelf. The ugly ones work better.”
I step inside, the bell doing its tired jingle.
The fluorescent hum is a comfort I didn’t know I needed.
I find the chews, grab two little bags, and add a bottle of water because I believe in rituals.
