small, worn suitcase. The other hand pressed firmly against her son’s back, pushing him forward toward me.
Evan was only four.
His legs were weak and supported by braces. When he stepped toward me, he wobbled, reaching out and grabbing my coat to steady himself. His little fingers held on too tight, not just for balance—like he was holding on to the only safe thing in front of him.
I looked from him to Lila, waiting for the rest of the sentence. Waiting for the explanation that would make it
