One Saturday he asked Rachel whether she remembered calling his name.

She rested her fingers on the edge of the blanket.

“I remember wanting to come back to you,” she said slowly.

“I don’t remember making a sound you could hear.” He considered this.

“But I did hear you.” Rachel smiled gently.

“I believe you heard something.

And I’m glad you told Dad.” His shoulders relaxed in a way I hadn’t realized they were held tight.

At home I had to confront the less dramatic consequences.