The baby monitor receiver sat on the shelf where it had been since that very first morning, its cord wrapped with a twist tie off a loaf of bread.

The plastic had faded to the color of weak tea.

He ate with one fist pressed against my collarbone and his eyes open, watching the window.

“You only have one sock,” I told him.

He wiggled his toes and decided that was fine.

At eight thirty the doorbell rang two times, quick and businesslike.

The mail carrier was a woman in a yellow rain jacket, even though the sky wasn’t doing anything at all.

“Certified for Whitcomb,” she said.