…this time next year…
Ginny lay quietly, covers tucked up to her chin, watching the lights from the bar across the street flashing off and on like a heartbeat. Her room was in the very front of the apartment, which meant she often drifted off to sleep listening to the sirens, the drunken singing or yelling, and the constant stream of traffic that never slept.
Mommy would often come in to kiss her goodnight, and spend a few minutes smoothing her hair.
“Someday, Ginny, we’ll move away from here. Maybe. . . . .this time next year. . . . “