“Where are you going to take him?” he asked.

“Away from Elm Street,” I said.

I went into our bedroom and yanked open the top dresser drawer.

I took out four onesies, three pairs of socks, and the sealed formula can from the closet shelf.

My laptop sat on the desk next to my freelance client folders, but my right ankle was throbbing so hard I could only grab the blue paper file with my active bookkeeping ledgers.

“I can talk to her again,” Ethan said, standing in the doorway.