I rubbed my gold wedding ring, my thumb tracing the smooth metal.
I looked out the side window as the cab turned onto Flatbush Avenue.
In the distance, over the dark rooftops of the Brooklyn brownstones, the first colored bursts of the New Year’s Eve fireworks began to light up the Manhattan skyline.
Maya shivered in my arms, her fingers clutching the front of my coat.
The sliding glass doors of the Methodist Hospital emergency room hissed shut behind us, cutting off the distant crackle of the midnight fireworks over the East River. The air inside smelled of bleach, pine cleaner, and the dry heat of industrial radiators.
A triage nurse in green scrubs immediately wheeled a metal gurney forward, her eyes scanning Maya’s grey face and the bundled winter coat in my arms. She did not ask for our insurance cards or our names, only pointed toward the swinging doors of the treatment area.
