At nine forty-one in the morning on the eleventh of October, my sister handed me a baby and I looked at my sister.

At ten fifty-nine that morning I wrote down, accurately, that I had not looked at the child.

At two forty-four that afternoon my sister said a sentence that put me inside a window, and I said, out loud, in front of four medical professionals, that the baby had already been hurting when she was handed to me.

And by the fifteenth of October, four days later, in a police station, I had a memory.

Not a lie.