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few seconds, until Clara found her own legs tensing, watching him. His eyes darted too quickly, checking Lorraine, checking the clock, the window, Clara—to see what mischief she was making?—back to his own hands, flexing and fisting on whichever pant legwas uppermost at the time. He didn’t wear a wedding ring, Clara noticed, but many men did not. Lorraine had one, and an engagement ring, nestled close together as they were made to do. People’s Jewellers, Clara thought, before she could stop herself. Or Wal-Mart.
    But just when she had dismissed their marriage and their whole lives this way, Clayton leaned forward on the bed and grasped Lorraine’s hand. He bent his mouth to her curled fingers, and then bent his head farther forward, over her sheeted lap, and said, “No.”
    Lorraine brought her other hand to curve over his head through his dirty hair. She said it too. “No, I know. It can’t be.”
    Clara got up without making a sound, and left the room.
     
    The landing at the top of the stairwell was cold, the second evening. She should go steal Trevor a blanket from an empty bed, Darlene thought. It was probably warmer out on the roof. The big metal door had one of those release bars. She leaned on the bar, feeling it give. If she pushed it all the way down the alarm might go off. There was no sign, though.
    She pushed it anyway. No sound. The heavy door swung open. She nudged Trevor with her toe and took his little springy fingers, and they stepped out into the evening darkness, and the warmth. Tarry black gel oozing up through the pebble coat of the wide expanse of roof. The wall all around was too low, be careful!
    Darlene got Trevor to hold her waist while she leaned over to see cars and people like ants, toy ambulances going into the garage door down there. If she fell, someone would scoop her up and put her in bed next to her mom, her legs strung up to the ceiling in white casts.
    She was going to throw up. She twisted up and backwards and grabbed Trevor’s arm, almost yanking them both over, whoo! But not quite.
    They were okay. They sat there. The soft black tar smelled good. And it was warmer out in the air.
     
    On Sunday morning, after a second sleepless night, Clara found herself in tears during the Hosanna. She hated crying in church and had stayed awayfor months after her mother’s death. But here she was again, eyes raised up to the wooden rafters of the roof. No heaven visible up there. Some water spilled over, before she got angry enough to stop.
    After coffee hour, not knowing what else to do, Clara stayed to talk to the priest, Paul Tippett. His own life seemed to be a shambles; she didn’t know how he could help, sitting in his poky office with a cup of weak coffee in front of him. Clara held hers on her lap.
    “What is the worst of it?” he asked her, when she had explained about the accident. His large-boned, unworldly face was kind.
    “The worst? Oh!” Clara had to look away, her eyes half-filling again.
    “Take your time,” he said, his gentle expression undisturbed. He must be used to tears, of course; but not from her, she’d hardly spoken to him before now.
    He listened.
    “I see what they need,” she finally said, “But I am unwilling to help.” But that was not it, she was not unwilling—she was somehow stupidly ashamed of wanting to help.
    It was probably part of his training not to speak, to let people go on.
    “The mother, Lorraine, is very ill. From before the accident, nobody knew about it. It’s cancer, lymphoma. Advanced. Her family has nowhere to go. They were living in their car, and the two older children are—and the baby, ten months old, too young to be without his mother—how will they cope with a baby in a shelter? The grandmother, I suppose, because the father is not a—but she’s not—”
    Clara stopped babbling.
    She had worked in shelters, serving supper, making beds, setting up the cardboard dividers that shut each person off from the next,