Min Randall sat on the bench next to the Royal Bank parking lot and wondered how much longer Enid Bangs, her foster mother, would spend in the bank.

“Don’t you move a muscle until I get back,” she had said as she bustled away.

But Min was cold. She hugged herself and wondered why old Enid had not let her come inside as she usually did. Trying to distract herself, she looked around the square. New snow was floating down in great, cottony flakes, just right for a December afternoon. A breeze set some of them spinning in a momentary dance and she began to smile. Then a cold finger of wind slid deep inside her coat collar and touched her neck. It made her shiver and blew out her smile. She huddled deeper into her jacket, but it was too thin to help.

The snowflakes were blowing onto the happy-family statue that rose up from the middle of the fountain across the street. The water had been turned off for the winter, but the statue still stood in its place.

As usual, the stone father supported the mother and she, in turn, held the baby high above her. All three were stark naked. Min, who was growing colder by the minute, felt sorry for them.

Maybe nude statues looked fine in Italy where Michelangelo’s David stood. The Art teacher had shown them a photo of him and he looked fine. Tall, bare and beautiful. But here in mid-winter in Ontario, Min felt, even a stone family needed some protection from the biting wind.

In her mind, she dressed the grown-ups in ski outfits and put a snug snowsuit on the baby. They looked much less miserable.

But that was not all that was wrong. The mother had the child perched high up on her hands but was not holding onto him properly. If he were made of flesh and blood, he would have given one wriggle and hurtled head over bare heels into the fountain beneath. Even if he sensed his danger and stayed absolutely still, a blast of wind would surely have toppled him to his death.

“Get a grip, lady,” Min whispered to the mother. Then she grinned, catching the double meaning in her own words.

If the three of them were alive, Min knew the Children’s Aid would have rescued that poor little kid and placed him in foster care. She should know. In her own years as a ward of the Children’s Aid, she’d met plenty of babies taken from parents who hadn’t looked after them properly.

The stone parents never abandoned their baby, though. There were always the three of them, sticking together, belonging. Even though the little guy didn’t have a stitch on, he’d probably fight to stay with his mum and dad regardless of the gusts that buffeted his small body.

Despite her winter clothing, Min felt frozen to the bone by now.