"Mama… please don't die," the child sobs, tugging at my sleeve.
"I won't," I say, my voice thin. I blink and the room tilts. The sheet smells of stale sweat and cigarette smoke. A pale face stares up at me—too much rouge, powdered like plaster. My mouth tastes of metal and sugar.
"You're crying," the little girl says, pressing her forehead to my hand. Her breath is hot and shallow. She says my name like it belongs to her.
"Emma," I repeat, testing it. "Emma, listen. I'm here."
She hiccups and grabs my shirt. I notice the tiny burn on her cheek and the way her eyelids tremble when she tries to blink awake. Her hands are sticky with something faded orange. I tuck a loose curl behind her ear and do what comes next before I can overthink anything.
"Tell me what hurts," I say.
"My belly," she whispers. "And my head."
I set my palm on her small back. The motion is automatic, the same motion I used to soothe cooks when a soup soured or a pan burned. My fingers remember heat and timing even if my head doesn't. The child's breathing slows a notch.
"What's your favorite?" I ask, making a sound that could pass for ordinary.
"Biscuits," she says. "With butter like the lady at the fair puts on."
"Biscuits, then," I promise.
The promise lands. She presses her face to my chest and goes quiet. I
