We carried Liam in his heavy car seat between us, each holding one side of the plastic handle.
“The neighborhood feels different today,” Maya said, looking up at the brick facades.
“No reporters,” I said.
“No lawyers,” she agreed. “Just people going to the grocery store.”
We turned into the entrance of Park Slope park, where the paths were cleared of snow but lined with white drifts.
A few dog walkers passed us, their boots crunching on the frozen gravel.
We found a wooden bench that caught the full midday sun and set the car seat down between our knees.
I unzipped the top of Liam’s green snowsuit just enough so he could breathe the cold, clean air. His blue eyes were wide, blinking at the bright sky.
“He likes the trees,” Maya said, leaning over him.
“He likes the silence,” I said.
She sat back against the wooden slats of the bench, letting her head tilt toward the sun. Her face was pale but healthy, the color returning to her cheeks after the long weeks of recovery.
