He saunters toward us. There is menace in his eyes and booze on his breath, a cloud of peppermint around him. One person’s devil is another’s angel, and vice versa.

“I have to admit,” he says, “there’s a certain poetic justice to it.”

Do you think people get what they deserve?

“This isn’t justice,” I snap. My mother slips from my hands and slumps against my legs. “Help me!”

He stands there staring, an unwanted audience in the worst moment of our lives.

I stoop over my mom, unsure how to help. Her eyes are rolling back in her head, and her mouth is flopping open. She’s breathing at least. I can see her chest rise and fall. But the breaths are shallow…frighteningly so.

My phone is in my back pocket. I rip it out and dial 911. I can hear it ringing faintly and the operator’s voice come on. I press the phone to my face. “Hello, hello? Can you hear me? I’m at St. Louis Cathedral on Jackson Square. Please send help. My mom has overdosed—”

Just then my mom groans and turns her head, vomiting to the side. I try to hold her head up so she won’t choke and use my shirt to wipe at her mouth. I know I’m crying, and I see the tremble of my hands as I try to clean her up. Please, please, please.

“Hurry!” I shout into the phone, laying it down next to us as I sit and pull my mom into my lap, tilting her head up in case she vomits again.

He is standing over us now, his long shadow arching over our bodies. He cocks his head to one side and stares down, studying.

“What is it like?” he finally asks. “To love that powerfully?”

I look up at him, my face streaked with tears. “What?” I croak out. I think he means my mom and her lost baby.

He squats down and picks the polaroid up, holding it in front of his face. After a moment, he lets it fall to the floor. Gently, with a finger, he brushes a strand of wet hair from my mother’s temple. I feel myself flinch reflexively as he does, but the motion is gentle…tender even. He looks up into my eyes. We are level now, face-to-face, with only the saints above us.

“What you feel—for her. What is that like?” he asks again.

I look down. Her face is so pale, like the underside of a fish. The color has even receded from her lips. A trail of flesh-colored drool is sliding down one corner of her mouth. I want to wipe it, but I don’t want to jostle her. I am afraid that sudden movement will still the slow rise and fall of her chest, will end the tick tick tick of a dying pulse. Like Moony’s watch.