I gripped the wheel, my knuckles white, and watched Lorraine turn from the dead camera to my sleeping wife.

Brooke stirred, opened her eyes, and the instant she saw Lorraine her whole body tensed. She tried to sit up, but a spasm crossed her face and she clutched her lower abdomen where the stitches were.

Lorraine didn’t ask if she was okay. She walked to the side table where Brooke’s water pitcher and pain medication sat.

I turned up the volume, and the two-way audio pulled in the room.

“You’re still sleeping?” Lorraine’s voice crackled through — not the syrup she used around me, but sharp and venomous. “It’s past nine, Brooke. The day’s half over.”

“I’m sorry, Lorraine,” Brooke whispered, barely audible. “Jonah was up crying from two until five. I just got him down.”