She looked right past Tiffany’s hand and straight into my eyes.

“Garrett,” she said.

Her voice was a quiet, beaten whisper that barely carried to the open cab door.

“Megan,” I said.

“Whose babies are these?”

She reached down with shaky fingers, straightened the collar of the smaller baby’s coat, and tugged the cap down lower over his forehead.

“You honestly still don’t know, do you, Garrett?” she said, her voice fading.

“Ask in your own house.”

She turned the stroller around and pushed it along the asphalt seam toward the off-ramp, her head bowed against the wind from the passing rigs.

“Garrett, shut the door,” Tiffany said, her voice slipping into the sweet, rising lilt she always used around strangers.

“She made her choice a long time ago.”

I pulled the cab door closed and eased back into the afternoon traffic.

The highway ran flat toward Nashville, gray and straight under the late sun.

Tiffany unbuckled her seat belt and turned the air conditioning vent toward her face.