The Photograph of a Newborn in a Yellow Knitted Hat

“If you’re still on this porch in sixty seconds, Megan, I’m calling Officer Reed.”

The deadbolt inside turned with a heavy thud.

I stood on the step and listened to her footsteps head for the kitchen.

I didn’t knock on the glass.

I walked down the steps, my shoes slipping on the wet leaves.

The photograph was still in my fingers, damp along the bottom edge where the mist had touched it.

I got into the Buick and backed out into the cul-de-sac.

The transmission hesitated again as I turned the corner, slipping before it locked into drive.