The voice on the other end of the phone was that of a White woman. "Hello," she said. "Does Michael Roby live there?"

I looked at the clock: 10:37 p.m.

I blinked hard. In the daylight, nice White women called to sell magazines, fancy cookware, or World Book Encyclopedias. They didn’t call Black folk’s homes after dark unless the police had arrested one of our kin or we needed to collect one of our dead. It was 1968, and we weren’t being buried in the same cemeteries.

"Hello, are you there?" the woman said.

"Yes ma’am." My stomach started to hurt. I wanted to turn the clock back until it was light outside again.

"There’s been an accident. Michael’s been shot. Someone from your family needs to come to Methodist Hospital now. Do you know where that is?"

My mouth was suddenly tissue-paper dry. "Yes ma’am, and okay. I’ll get my momma, and somebody will be there directly." The words felt sticky.

The lady exhaled coolly as if I’d said exactly what she’d wanted to hear. "Hurry," was her last word. The line went dead.

The wind stung our faces like a hive of wasps somebody messed with as we walked about two miles to the only hospital on the west side of town that treated Black folk with a semblance of respect. Momma and I hooked our arms and squeezed our fingers to brace ourselves against the huffing and blowing.

"Momma, you think Michael is gonna live?" I needed her to say that everything would be okay. I needed to hear that Michael would greet us in the lobby with a small scar and a big smile.

Momma stopped, turned loose of our grip, and then pulled the collar of her thin blue jacket up and around her neck. She blew out a smoky white breath that matched strands of her hair into the November wind and spoke in no particular direction: "I’m tired child. I hopes tonight that whatever done happened, he goes on to Glory."

Tears never made it down my cheeks. The wind saw to that. I tucked my hands beneath my armpits and trailed her footsteps for the remaining blocks to Methodist.