Ten minutes later, Edward had arranged Edith on his chest and bent his knees in preparation for the first step down. He had determined that nothing was broken, but she refused to ambulate on her own, had remained bubbling the beginnings of sentences from her prone position in his entryway. His left arm cradled the blues and purples of her legs, and his right tensed against her shoulder blades. Her hat, which he had placed back on her head, obstructed his view as he felt his way down the steps, and her breath sounded in strained puffs from her unevenly pink-frosted lips. She began to sing.
Pardon me boy, is that the Chattanooga Choo-choo?
Right on track twenty-nine, boy can you give me a shine?