“She was at the hardware store buying packing tape,” Lily said.

She slid the photograph into my hand and pushed open the screen door.

I looked down at the yellow knitted hat pulled over the newborn’s forehead.

My keys lay on the counter, cold against my palm when I picked them up.

I climbed into the eleven-year-old Buick and shifted into reverse.

The transmission hesitated before catching, rocking the car back onto the gravel.

I drove four blocks to the duplex with my hand on my collarbone.