“You have a lot of work waiting on your desk.”

“Work can wait until eight o’clock tonight,” Ethan said, flicking the turn signal on for Elm Avenue.

“Taking care of you is my job.”

Back at our suburban bungalow, the nursery was completely quiet at three o’clock.

I sat in the yellow wooden rocking chair by the window, holding June flat against my chest while she slept.

Her forehead felt smooth and cool under my lips, her skin carrying the faint, clean scent of baby soap instead of wet washcloths and alcohol swabs.

On the dresser beside us, the Braun ear thermometer sat in its plastic cradle, its screen dark after showing ninety-eight point four degrees at noon.