Her sedan was idling in my driveway when I got back at about half past three, headlights on, heater running, which meant she had been there a while.

I came to the window with the wicker basket in my hand, which was empty, because the baby was in Georgetown, and which must have looked insane.

She rolled the glass down.

I told her.

Jolene, the surrender, the Thursday, Agnes at the mantelpiece, the paperwork already drawn.

And Clara Mireles said: “What did you tell her?”

“I said I’d take him.”

She looked at the basket.