The Mother woke because her son had stopped shivering.
That frightened her more than the cold itself.
She opened her eyes beneath the concrete belly of an Albuquerque interstate overpass and immediately reached toward the small shape curled beside her.
“Little Boy?”
No response.
Her hand found his shoulder beneath the blanket.
Warm enough.
Moving.
Breathing.
She exhaled.
He was only asleep.
The Mother closed her eyes for one second, then opened them again because sleeping deeply had become dangerous.
Twenty-three nights without a home had taught her that.
The highway above them never truly became quiet.
Trucks crossed the bridge at all hours, sending faint vibrations down the concrete pillars.
Tires hissed.
Engines groaned.
Occasionally a horn broke through the darkness.
Below, the cold collected.
The official temperature was nineteen degrees.
Beneath the overpass, with wind curling around the support columns, it felt lower.
The Mother had placed flattened cardboard beneath them because someone at a day center told her concrete pulled heat directly from the body.
She had not known that before becoming homeless.
There were many things she had not known.
How quickly motel money disappeared.
Which public bathrooms locked overnight.
Which laundromat employees allowed a child to sit inside without buying anything.
Which fast-food restaurants tolerated one cup of coffee being stretched across three hours.
Which parking garages had warm stairwells.
Which shelters separated families under certain conditions.
Which churches served meals on which days.
How much dignity could be lost simply by asking strangers whether they had somewhere safe for a six-year-old to sleep.
The Little Boy shifted beneath his blanket.
The Mother looked down.
The blanket had once been bright blue.
Now the blue was faded nearly gray in several places.
Yellow stars and crescent moons covered the fabric, although many had become pale ghosts from years of washing.
One corner had torn three months earlier.
The Mother repaired it using fabric from an old pillowcase.
Another tear ran along the lower edge.
Loose threads curled from the seam.
The stuffing had thinned until certain sections offered almost no warmth.
It should have been thrown away years ago.
The Little Boy would not let her.
He had slept beneath it since he was two.
His father had tucked it around him when thunderstorms frightened him.
The Mother had carried it into hospital waiting rooms.
It had traveled on vacations they could no longer imagine affording.
When their apartment disappeared, the blanket remained.
When the furniture was sold, the blanket remained.
When their car died, the blanket remained.
When the Little Boy asked whether they were homeless and the Mother could no longer pretend they were merely between places, the blanket remained.
It was the closest thing he still possessed to the old version of home.
The Mother pulled the edge higher around his shoulder.
A small camping heater glowed several feet away.
Orange light pulsed behind its metal grill.
The heater had cost twelve dollars at a roadside sale.
The seller claimed it worked perfectly.
The first two nights, it did.
Tonight it had begun making a faint popping sound.
The Mother also noticed an odor.
She told herself it was old fuel.
Or dust.
Or the concrete.
Anything except danger.
She had checked the flame repeatedly.
Still burning.
She had pushed the heater farther from the cardboard.
That had to be enough.
The Little Boy needed warmth.
The Mother needed one thing to work.
She leaned back against the pillar.
Her eyes burned from exhaustion.
She had worked until four that afternoon washing dishes at a diner that paid cash because she no longer had a stable address.
The manager gave her leftover soup.
Half remained inside a plastic container beside the shopping cart.
Tomorrow she would return.
Maybe he would offer another shift.
Maybe she could collect enough for three motel nights.
Maybe during those three nights she could call every apartment listing saved on her phone.
Maybe somebody would ignore the eviction appearing on her record.
Maybe.
She hated that word now.
A motorcycle engine echoed beneath the overpass.
The Mother opened her eyes.
The sound approached from the service road.
Deep.
Heavy.
Slowing.
Most motorcycles passed.
This one did not.
A large black touring bike rolled beneath the bridge.
Its headlight swept across the concrete wall, the shopping cart, the cardboard, and finally the Mother.
She stood immediately.
Her hand slid inside her coat pocket.
A tiny can of pepper spray rested there.
A social worker had given it to her.
She had never used it.
The motorcycle stopped twenty feet away.