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Our Father…
    Brody finally gave up trying to pray, instead murmuring more quiet apologies, for not smiling back at her, for being an asshole to Sam, for being a piece of shit drug addict, for being a rotten son and leaving his mom.
    Closing his eyes, he took the girl’s hand, imagining he was back home. Mom was in the kitchen, singing, wearing her favorite apron. The smell of fresh-baked bread drifted on a warm breeze. Sam and he were sitting on the big wraparound porch of Brody’s mother’s house. This girl was in a white summer dress, laughing, unharmed, and running barefoot in the grass.
    He opened his eyes and stared up at the darkened sky, watching the snow coming down on him and thinking about every horrible thing he’d ever done in his life. It wasn’t fair that this poor girl who’d been nice enough to give him a dollar was lying here dead in the cold. He balled his hand into a fist and brought it down hard on the side of his leg, cursing life and himself, for both being so fucking unkind. His anger cooled as the snow melted on his face. For him there was still time to fix things, still time to be something more than what he’d been. He briefly wondered what she’d do with another chance at life.
    He should probably go call somebody. Like 911. The phone had been turned off at the apartment for a while now, but old Mrs. Mueller down the hall would probably call them if he told her about this.
    Brody imagined knocking on her door. Ironically hers was the only one in the building with a big welcome mat in front of it.
    Hi, Mrs. Mueller, it’s me, Brody Redlinger, your neighbor from 511. Um…hey, listen, I found this dead chick out back…
    He could just see her peering at him out of the crack, with a big brass chain lock on the door. Then she would call the cops, all right, and he’d be the first one in the back of the squad car.
    He was going to have to walk down to the building manager’s apartment and ask him to call the police. That idea didn’t sit well with Brody either, especially since old man Varnes didn’t try to hide the fact that he didn’t approve of Brody and Sam’s relationship either. Aside from that, Brody was sure Sam and he were behind on the rent, but at least the building manager wouldn’t automatically think Brody had something to do with this.
    The cops would come, and they were going to ask questions. No way around that. It would make things a lot easier for him if he just went home and left her for someone else to deal with. Fuck, he dreaded sitting at the police station all night, answering a bunch of questions about something he didn’t know a damn thing about.
    He glanced at the girl again, remembering how at every funeral that he’d ever been to, the bodies all seemed hollow and dull, like empty shells or dried husks. She didn’t. She seemed to glow with life.
    Hesitantly he touched her neck, trying to feel a pulse. The silken skin was warmer than his icy fingers. She hadn’t been here long.
    Dumped. Fucking dumped, like trash.
    “I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered. “If there was some way I could change this for you, I would. I promise you that.”
    He traced her jawline with his index finger, resigning himself to the idea of dealing with the cops and their questions. Leaving her alone back here without calling anybody would be a shitty thing to do.
    A small, rattling breath blew from her lips. Brody jerked his hand back.
    She isn’t dead.
    Impulsively he gathered her in his arms and struggled to stand up. She was heavier than he expected, and he stumbled. His weak arms shook with the strain of supporting her weight. He silently vowed that no matter what, he would not drop her. Brody was unsteady when he walked on his own; carrying the woman was a monumental task. His legs trembled as he stopped to open the front door of the building.
    In the stairwell of the apartment building her eyes opened, and in the bright fluorescent lighting she stared up at him and