A Twenty-Dollar Bill Dropped Into the Dust Beside a Tennessee Highway

“Samuel,” she said.

“Named for your father.”

“And his brother?”

“Daniel,” she said, nodding at the stroller.

“He’s still out cold in his seat.

He sleeps through anything.”

Samuel stirred in my arm, his little hand opening and closing against my button-down shirt until he caught a tiny fold of the fabric in his fist.

I sat perfectly still on the wooden bench, holding my son while the oak’s shade crept slowly across the green grass.