Excerpt from The Hours Count by Jillian Cantor, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

I thought about the poor man, maybe drawn to the sunshine and beauty of Mexico, who'd come back to New York only to die of a terrible disease and then be blamed for it.

"Good thing Susan and the babies aren't in the city," I heard my mother saying, "in the middle of all this filth. You and Ed will probably find your way out to the country eventually, too, and then I suppose we will be forced to come live with one of you. Won't we, Mamaleh?" Bubbe Kasha did not respond and neither did I.

"What are we in line for?" Bubbe Kasha asked me for what felt like the hundredth time, and I calmly explained to her again about the smallpox and the necessary inoculation. But I knew I could tell her anything now and she would simply nod her head.

She had been my sanctuary, growing up. It was her apartment I'd run to when I was upset with my mother or Susan—or both. She was the one who showed me how to knead the challah in a way that made me always feel better. She was the one who dropped butter cookies in the pocket of my dress even before the candles were lit for Shabbat dinner. "You're too skinny," she used to whisper even though it wasn't true. "I need to fatten you up."

I hugged the umbrella under my shoulder so I could reach down and squeeze her hand now, and for a moment her thin, frail fingers clutched mine, squeezing back, the way they used to when I was a girl and my mother would prattle on and on about Susan's many accomplishments. Susan got high marks in school, while mine were decidedly average, and she sang a solo every year at the end of school performance because she had such a lovely voice, while I was in the chorus. I was just plain old dependable Millie, the one who helped my father out in the butcher shop and who helped Bubbe Kasha around her apartment, while Susan was too busy with all her many activities. But with a slight squeeze of my fingers, a knowing smile cast my way, Bubbe Kasha told me that I was appreciated, that she thought I was special, too.

"Finally," my mother exclaimed, and I looked up and saw that at long last we were at the front of the line. My mother pulled Bubbe Kasha away from me and pushed up her sleeve. Then did the same thing herself. Their pale, wrinkly arms hung there in the rain, waiting to get inoculated, and it was at that moment that I thought to move the umbrella to look down at David. His eyes were wide and his mouth had dropped open a little. He was not dumb, I reminded myself again. He understood exactly what was happening, what was about to happen to him. I saw it in his eyes, the fleeting recognition, the memory of the whooping cough vaccine that morning not too long ago in Dr. Greenberg's office. He understood even if he didn't say it.

"It's all right, darling," I leaned down and whispered in his ear. "It's just a little poke. But it will keep us from getting sick."

"Ouch!" my mother yelled too loudly as the needle hit her arm. "That hurts."

David's eyes widened farther, and he struggled out of my grasp and began running through puddles right into Monroe Street. It took me a second to understand what was happening, that David had gotten away from me and was in the street, and then I ran after him, a yellow taxicab swerving and honking at me.

There were so many people in line that it wrapped around the block, past the entrance to our building, and it was raining so hard that I struggled to see, to make sense of where I was looking. David. My David. I couldn't see him, and certainly I wouldn't be able to hear him.

"David!" I screamed. "Don't run. Don't move. You don't have to get a shot!"

In response, I heard only the rain hitting the sidewalk, the squeal of car brakes in the street, my mother's voice yelling, "Millie, get back here. Should you want to die of smallpox?" She was oblivious to what had happened, and I didn't turn back to tell her.

Excerpted from The Hours Count by Jillian Cantor. Copyright © 2015 by Jillian Cantor. Excerpted by permission of Riverhead Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.