The sun tries to lure me awake with its warm, golden rays. No thank you. I will stay unconscious in this cool, dark place. Here, my mom’s booming laugh is a colorful dragon I can ride. I hop on and take in the sweetly scented air. It’s calming and familiar. But I can’t quite place it . . . Oh yes, coconut and jojoba oil. The oils she mixed together before she greased my scalp when I was little. How did she do it? How did she make this whole world smell like washday? Suddenly, my dragon swoops down for a landing . . .

“No, let’s stay up here. I wanna stay here!”

“Ayo! Ayo, baby, wake up!”

I open my eyes. I’m back here, in this world where she may not exist anymore. I’m in a hospital room, and a chunky older man is standing over me. He has kind eyes and a salt-and-pepper beard, and worry is etched on his face. He tries to put together something that resembles a smile.

Uncle Ty. He lives in Jersey with his wife; she doesn’t get along with my mother, so we don’t get to see him as often as we’d like.

“Uncle Ty . . .”

“You okay, Bit-Bit?”

“What happened?”

“You fainted and then when you came to, you were hysterical, so the doctors gave you something. It helped you sleep.”

“Mom. Where’s Mom? Is she . . . ?” I can’t finish my thought. It’s just too painful to put those words out into the air.

“She’s trying really hard to hold on. Right now, all we can do is pray for her.”

“Where is she? Take me to her.”

He helps me out of bed, and for the first time since waking up, I hear loud chanting outside: “No justice, no peace.”

“What is that?” I ask.

“Just about everybody in Harlem. They are going crazy out there. Now they want justice one way or another.” He goes over to the window and opens it just a crack. Everyone is shouting and pumping their fists in the air. They are demanding the cops involved pay for what they did.

When I think about the man who shot her and his partner, who just let it happen, the ire is overwhelming. There isn’t space for both prayers for my mom and hate for the cops. It’s not that I can’t summon both, but one would take over the other, quickly. And if rage won out, I would be too busy burning the police station to the ground to really be there for my mom.

So for now, I choose to put all my energy on her. I don’t know how long I can hold back this kind of fury. That’s the thing: all the Black girls I know have rage in one way or another; no one tells us where to put it. And sometimes we are left to improvise . . .