At 4:00 AM, Harlow dragged her feet up the fifth flight of stairs in a decaying Brooklyn apartment building. The narrow hallway reeked of stale urine and rotting garbage.
She carried Clementine in her arms. The little girl was dead weight, completely exhausted.
Harlow pulled a rusted key from her pocket. Her hands shook so violently she dropped it twice before finally sliding it into the lock. She pushed the flimsy wooden door open.
The apartment was nothing more than a cramped, freezing studio. A single mattress lay on the floor next to a cheap hot plate.
Harlow walked to the mattress and gently laid Clementine down. She unzipped the dirty, oversized coat and pulled a thin, scratchy blanket up to the girl's chin. She smoothed her daughter's hair, her touch as light as a feather.
The moment she stepped back, a brutal spasm seized Harlow's chest.
She slapped both hands over her mouth. She sprinted to the tiny, moldy bathroom and kicked the door shut behind her.
Harlow collapsed over the chipped porcelain sink. She coughed. The sound was wet and tearing. Hot, thick blood spewed from her lips, slipping through her fingers and splattering against the white porcelain.
The crimson stains looked terrifyingly bright under the flickering fluorescent bulb.
Harlow gripped the edges of the sink, her knuckles white. She stared at her reflection in the cracked mirror. Her skin was the color of ash. Her cheekbones jutted out sharply beneath her sunken eyes.
She knew the truth. Her body was shutting down. She didn't have three months. She might not even have one.
She turned on the cold water, washing the blood down the drain. She scrubbed her face aggressively, trying to force some color into her dead skin. She opened a plastic bottle and dry-swallowed two cheap, over-the-counter painkillers.
At 7:00 AM, the shrill beep of a dollar-store alarm clock filled the room.
Clementine sat up on the mattress. She rubbed her eyes and blindly reached for the nightstand, her fingers finding the cracked plastic hearing aid. She pushed it into her ear.
Harlow was already dressed in a clean, faded button-down shirt. She walked over holding a chipped bowl of steaming oatmeal.
Harlow plastered a massive, bright smile on her face. She set the bowl down and raised her hands, signing 'Good morning, sunshine' with exaggerated enthusiasm.
Clementine didn't smile back. The little girl's eyes were wide with fear. She reached out and grabbed Harlow's sleeve, her tiny fingers clutching the fabric like a lifeline.
Clementine raised her free hand. She clumsily signed, 'Angry man. Who? Did I do bad?'
Harlow's heart shattered into a million jagged pieces.
She pushed the bowl away and pulled Clementine into her lap, wrapping her arms tightly around her small body. Harlow squeezed her eyes shut to stop the tears from falling.
She pulled back and raised her hands, signing slowly and clearly. 'He is a helper. You are perfect. You did nothing wrong.'
Clementine shook her head. She buried her face in Harlow's neck, letting out a soft, broken whimper. She signed against Harlow's chest, 'Don't leave me.'
A tear slipped down Harlow's cheek, landing in Clementine's blonde hair.
'I will never leave you,' Harlow signed back, telling the most agonizing lie of her life. 'I will watch you grow up.'
To distract her, Harlow reached under the mattress and pulled out a brand-new, bright yellow backpack. She had saved for a month to buy it.
She signed to Clementine that today was her first day at a new preschool, a place where she would make lots of friends. Clementine looked terrified, but seeing her mother's hopeful eyes, she slowly nodded and began to eat the oatmeal.
At 9:00 AM, Harlow held Clementine's hand as they stood in the lobby of a community-funded Inclusive Preschool in Brooklyn.
The receptionist, a kind older woman, looked up from her clipboard. Her eyes widened when she saw Harlow's ghostly complexion.
"Honey, are you okay?" the receptionist asked softly. "Do you need me to call a doctor?"
Harlow panicked. She waved her hands frantically. "No, no. I'm fine. I just work night shifts. I'm just tired."
She crouched down in front of Clementine. She adjusted the straps of the yellow backpack. She smiled, signing that she would be back at exactly 3:00 PM.
Clementine's lower lip trembled. She grabbed Harlow's index finger and refused to let go. Tears welled up in her large blue eyes.
Harlow had to harden her heart. She gently, but firmly, pried Clementine's fingers loose. She handed the crying girl to the teacher, stood up, and walked out the door without looking back.
The moment Harlow hit the sidewalk, her legs gave out. She leaned against the rough brick wall of the school. She covered her mouth with both hands and sobbed, her shoulders shaking violently as she listened to her daughter's muffled cries from inside.
Suddenly, her cheap prepaid phone buzzed in her pocket.
Harlow wiped her eyes and answered.
"Ms. Aguilar," a cold, professional voice said. "This is Simon Caldwell, Mr. Bray's assistant. Mr. Bray has arranged the DNA test. A car will pick you and the child up tomorrow morning for the official swab."
A massive surge of adrenaline hit Harlow's system. The dead look in her eyes vanished, replaced by a blazing spark of hope.
"Thank you," Harlow gasped, her voice trembling with relief. "Thank you so much."
Simon was silent for two seconds. "Don't get your hopes up, Ms. Aguilar," he warned coldly, and hung up.
Harlow lowered the phone. She looked up at the gray Brooklyn sky and let out a long, shaky breath.
It didn't matter what Ezra thought now. The science would prove it. Clementine would have a father.
