Near dawn, she sleeps for a while and dreams of gathering Easter eggs: a violet one nestled between the white pickets of a porch railing, a pink-and-green one camouflaged in the grass next to a wire fence, an azure one balanced perfectly and precariously on a water spigot.

They leave under cover of darkness, like duck hunters or criminals, barely whispering. They settle Cheri on the bench seat in the middle of the van, oxygen canister next to her, daughters behind her. The van door glides closed with a soft thud, and while Wayne climbs in and situates his coffee, Linda stares out the windows at the neighborhood emerging in the grainy light. Straight-edged prairie bungalows surrounded by sugar maples and oaks, Cheri’s little corner house painted a curious shade of dark vanilla with bright white trim; a thatch of low evergreens pressed against the porch. It all seems so calm and unadorned, as full of hidden promise as the bulbs planted beneath the kitchen window.

Cheri refuses herself even one last look. That was then; this is now.

She needs more oxygen already, just from the effort of getting this far. Linda turns on the dome light and adjusts the dial; Cheri breathes deeply, head down to combat the nausea. Sarah begins crying silently in the back, and Katy leans forward to touch her mother’s shoulder. The town flattens into countryside and they drive due east, straight into the sunrise, pillowy December clouds edged in apricot. Linda passes the thermos to Katy, and Cheri lifts her head briefly, asks to have the oxygen turned up again.

Halfway through Illinois, she begins to panic over possibly having to go to the hospital if the tank runs out and can’t be refilled. She had made all the plans for the trip, including how much oxygen to bring, but her needs have increased sharply over just the last few days. If she has to go to the hospital, they’ll call her doctor, and her doctor will put two and two together. Inside the tight black place behind her eyelids, she watches herself clench her fists and hold them up against the sky.

Wayne tracks down a pharmacy in Joliet, and Linda somehow gets the tank refilled. All they know is she walked in with it empty and walked out with it full. Determination and twenty-five bucks, she tells them. Cheri keeps her head in her hands through the next two states, trying not to vomit. Sarah and Kate take turns comforting her and resting their foreheads on the back of her seat, dazed and leaden. Car crazy, longing for a cigarette.

Cheri lifts her head briefly and seeks out Wayne in the rearview mirror. “I need to stop at a bathroom,” she tells him.