Elena Kane

Twenty-one days.

I tally them during the pauses between Isla’s breaths as she rests curled up against my chest, on the sofa that retains a scent of gun oil and café con leche.

Twenty-one days remain before the city attempts to crown my daughter as the queen of its decaying core.

Twenty-one days remain before the red vein, beneath her collarbone reveals if it’s a birthmark or a tether.

She weighs more than she did yesterday.

Perhaps I’m simply less strong.

Alexander is ...