He had to check himself. Catch himself. Clog this whirlpool before he was fully submerged in angst and self-pity like he’d been as a teenager, before meeting Michelle, and well before becoming a pa. After all, for the first time in his life, he had a damn good excuse, if not a full-blown reason, for being. Their baby fattened his days with meaning. But even though he’d found his purpose, he still hadn’t located his place. All his griping for more and never having enough—he was asking too much. Because, pretty much certainly, acquiring an external and objective purpose was way more than anyone could rightfully demand, let alone expect. Who on earth didn’t want more money, more energy, more sleep, more everything? He had to remind himself this was already far more than he deserved. Had to shut up and get to the task at hand, just like everyone else.

Still though, there was a bone to pick—then snap—with the nature of time. These days, every glance at his watch was a slap. All the hours spent at work and away from his family stretched into a vast and arid grassland for him to crawl across. But once he did make it to the other end, precious minutes at home were reduced to winks.

After each sleep-starved night of infant rocking and feeding and cleaning, leaving for work in the morning felt like fleeing. A man on the run with a price on his head. Constantly looking over his shoulder had begun robbing him of immediacy and presence, whether at work or at home. Tasks as simple as leveling base blocks and fastening diaper straps were now a foreign arithmetic. Hammers and baby powder containers leapt from his grasp. He was overlooking steps as innate as penciling tiles before cuts, or turning on the coffeemaker after he’d loaded a fresh filter. Withered minutes meant a withered him.

Today he hadn’t gotten home till seven. After dumping his wallet, phone, and a splash of change onto the nightstand, he’d flopped facedown in bed without undressing and—just his luck. It felt like a teaspoon was stabbing into his thigh. He’d missed a single coin in his front pocket but was too dead to fish it out now. Evidently, Michelle was just as beat. Not a word, not even a reproachful squint, when her eyes fluttered over his sawdust-stiffened outfit on top of their new baby-safe duvet.

Even wrung out by the day, she looked lovely. Hair bunned into a frizzy tumbleweed. Palms folded under her cheek as if in a sideways prayer. He asked about her day.

“Ssshhh,” she said. “Baby’s sleeping.”