“I know, I know. It’s cold. We’ll get you inside.”

I push you carefully along the sidewalk to our front steps, easing over the uneven cement. I should probably move, find a place with easier access, a one-story house without front steps. We’ll see.

“What do you think, Pearl? Would you like to move?”

When we arrive at our front porch, I look up, and my body goes numb.

Your father is standing on the porch.

“John,” I say.

But he has eyes only for you. At first he was rubbing his arms, trying to get or stay warm, but when he sees you, his face wrinkles up in confusion and sadness, and his head tilts to the side. His eyes squint as if he’s trying to see something, see it clearer, see it from a different angle, because if he can do that, surely it will change what’s in front of him.

“John,” I say again, not knowing where to begin. His eyes are hollowed out, as they always are when he returns, his cheeks sunken in, his skin the color of old slate shingles. His hair has been cut by someone who didn’t know what they were doing. But there is something clear about the air around him. His eyes are awake. I can tell he is sober. For now.

His movement down onto the step is part sitting, part falling. I reach out to catch him, but he’s already there, crouching on the steps, searching your eyes for something.

“What happened, Dad?” he whispers.

“We went back to Nysa,” I say, shaking my head. I can never tell him everything.

“Nysa?”

“We stayed with Tom. Pearl nearly drowned.” I find it hard to believe the words coming out of my mouth. It feels like someone else is talking, and I want to tell that person to shut up, stop it, no one cares what you have to say, you with your lies and your made-up stories. But I’m the one who’s talking, and it’s all true.

“Same as Mom,” he says.

Since it’s not a question, I don’t reply, though I think I might be nodding.

“We almost lost her. The doctors say she went quite a while without oxygen under the water. And the fever nearly did her in. But here we are. Here she is.”

He reaches up to touch your cheek. His knuckles are swollen. His nails are chewed short and stained around the edges, but when he touches your skin, he is gentle, and that is a relief to me.

“How long have you been here waiting for us?”

“I came by a month ago and waited,” he says. “You weren’t here, so I left. I guess this time I’ve been here two or three days, back and forth between here and the shelter.”

“You must be hungry.”

He nods.

I walk over and unlock the door, push it open. He doesn’t move from where he sits in front of you.

“I’ll carry her in,” I say. “You grab the chair. It folds in on itself. Or you can wheel it in, whatever. I think it will fit.”