It happened on a Sunday.
Ivy was eight weeks old. Mei Hart had gone home the previous Thursday — Lina had insisted, her mother had resisted, they had compromised on a weekly visit and daily phone calls that were already exceeding this arrangement in both directions.
Lina was at the window with Ivy on her shoulder, doing the small rhythmic movement that Ivy had decided was the only acceptable mode of transport between being awake and being asleep. The city outside was doing its Sunday things — quieter traffic, a couple walking a dog, the particular unhurried quality of a morning with nowhere it needed to be.
She saw the car first.
