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

ETHEL'S APARTMENT was quite similar to mine, right down to the linoleum squares in the tiny, narrow kitchen. The exceptions were the large upright piano in the living room, the views of the courtyard and the East River, and the multitude of toys scattered all about the floor. She was right about John having so many, and with that, the piano, and her studio time, it seemed Ethel and her husband had a lot more money than Ed and I had.

Now that we were in dry clothes, David seemed tired, and he still clung to my neck and sucked his thumb. We sat at Ethel's table while she brewed some coffee in the kitchen, and John tossed a ball against the hard floor, trying to get David to join in.

"Why doesn't he say anything?" John implored me, frowning.

"He just . . ." I didn't have an answer that I could give a child. Or anyone. "He just doesn't talk yet," I said, brushing the damp brown curls from David's forehead. "He's younger than you."

"He doesn't need to talk to play with you," Ethel said to John, putting two steaming cups of coffee on the table. I was still chilled, my curls were still damp, and the steam felt wonderful against my face. "Why don't you show him some of your things?" Ethel said.

I pulled David from my lap and put him on the floor, but he reached right back up for my neck. "Do you mind if I sit down here with him?" I asked Ethel.

"Not at all." And she joined us on the floor, too. John handed David the ball he'd been bouncing, and David pulled his thumb from his mouth to use his hands to examine the ball carefully. It was red with yellow squares, and I watched David's eyes widen with interest.

John pulled the ball back and began bouncing it again. And David reached his arms back, trying to recapture it. "Make sure you're sharing," Ethel said to John. He squirmed and pulled out of Ethel's grasp.

"It's all right," I said, sensing John was on the edge of a tantrum. "There are plenty of toys to go around here." I searched the floor for something else yellow, saw a bright yellow bird stuffed animal, and picked it up and handed it to David.

John bounced his ball without complaining, though the repetitive noise of it against the floor was dreadful, and David seemed content to turn the yellow bird over and over again.

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.