out of her apron pocket and spoke an address to a dispatcher.

Then, in half-remembered Italian, a Hail Mary from her grandmother, whispered fast against his ear, as if the words themselves might hold him inside his own body.

She smelled like vanilla and roasted coffee.

He would remember that for six years and not know why.

He tried to say thank you. He could not find the shape of it. The sirens started somewhere three streets away. Her hand did not leave his chest until the ambulance lights washed