Pocket-Size Weather

Rain tapped the sidewalks like tiny drumbeats.

Sky held her purple-and-blue umbrella low. Her white shirt and blue tie looked too neat for a night like this, but she liked it that way. Her phone buzzed with a weather alert she already knew.

At the edge of a small park, something dark lay in the grass.

Sky stopped.

“Hey,” she said, quiet as the rain.

The girl did not move. A black hoodie clung to her like a wet blanket. Sky crouched, careful not to kneel in the mud, and aimed her phone flashlight.

The girl’s eyes were half-open.

Her pupils were black.

Sky’s fingers tightened on the umbrella handle.

“Are you sick?” Sky asked.

The girl’s forehead felt scary-hot.

Sky swallowed, then tapped her phone. “Mom… I’m bringing someone home,” she said, and slid an arm under the girl’s shoulders.

The girl’s hair, red-orange and messy, stuck to her cheek as Sky lifted

The Paper Bag Smell

Sky bumped the apartment lobby door with her hip. The glass swung in, and rain slid off her umbrella onto the mat.

The elevator mirror showed her own wide blue eyes—and the older girl’s face lolled against Sky’s shoulder.

“Stay with me,” Sky muttered, even though the girl did not answer.

On the fourth floor, Sky fumbled her keys. The girl’s hoodie dripped on Sky’s blue skirt.

A door across the hall cracked open.

“Sky?” A woman leaned out, holding a paper bag that smelled like dinner. “I’m Mrs. Kline. I bake at the corner shop. Who is that?”

“She was in the park,” Sky said. Her arms shook. “She’s burning up.”

Mrs. Kline stepped closer and glanced at the girl’s eyes. “Oh.” She didn’t say more. She just held out the bag. “Rolls. Salt helps. Do you want me to call someone?”

Inside Sky’s apartment, Sky sat the girl on the couch and pressed a cold washcloth to her forehead.

The girl’s eyelids fluttered.

“Name?” Sky asked.

“Te…to,” the girl rasped.

Sky grabbed her phone to call the nurse line.

The screen blinked red.

Then went black.