I never expected to become the one thing standing between Raymond Winslow and the grave that his own family had already, quietly, begun to dig.

Chapter 4 — The Baby on His Chest

That night, worn past the end of my strength, I sat down in the chair beside Raymond’s bed to rest my arms, which had gone numb from three hours of holding a squirming, crying child.

Theodore was still fussing against my shoulder, and without really thinking it through, wanting only a moment’s relief, I laid him down for a few seconds on the still chest of the sleeping man.

The baby fell asleep almost at once.