I look up at my husband, who is shuckling intently. “Would we do this if we had a baby?”
The snow is coming down hard during Lakewood’s once annual snowstorm, and my car skids slightly as I pull over. I fumble for my phone and dial.
“Roizy? Hi… I’m by the corner. I’ll be by you in a minute.”
“Okay, no problem, I’m coming out!”
I’ve never been on this block before, and I squint through the driving snow for Roizy’s address. 915… 917… I’m looking for 921.
Just ahead, the porch light is on, and the familiar form of turban-clad Roizy stands in the entrance, halfway in the frigid outdoors.
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