Folding the newspaper, she’d placed it in the paper bag with the rest of the newspapers she’d be using to clean windows later in the week. She was wiping up the coffee spill when her husband came in from the barn.

Brushing bits of alfalfa hay from his coat, he walked to the table and looked down at the stained tablecloth. “Where’s the newspaper?” he asked in Pennsylvania Dutch.

“I spilled coffee on it,” she told him.

It was the first time in thirty years of marriage that she’d lied to her husband.

* * *

I’ve walked this road a hundred times and yet I don’t recognize it. The wind has stripped the leaves from the trees, ripped the cornstalks from the ground, and set the telephone poles at 45-degree angles. The asphalt beneath my feet is covered with an inch of mud and dead foliage. In the distance, the tornado sirens shriek. The storm bears down, a black beast with an insatiable hunger for violence.

I hear the cry of a baby, and when I look down, the child is in my arms. Soft skin warm against my breast. Four months old and crying her heart out. She’s soaked from the rain and shivering with cold. Tiny mouth open, chin quivering. Her eyes are on mine, watchful, trusting me to save her.

She’s partially wrapped in a white blanket, but it’s stained with blood. I’m holding her, running as fast as I can, but the mud is hampering me. The wind is pummeling me, trying to tear her from my arms.

“I’ve got you,” I tell her. “I’ll keep you safe.”

But when I look down, the baby is being sucked from my arms. I grab for her, but my fingers slide against wet flesh. I hear her high-pitched wail. And then she’s gone. When I look at my hands, they’re covered with blood.

“Kate. Kate.”

Tomasetti’s voice drags me awake. I’m lying in our bed, my back against the pillows. My legs are tangled in sheets that are damp with sweat. I’m aware of Tomasetti beside me. I glance down, but my arms are empty. No baby. No blood on my hands. But I swear I can still feel the warmth from when the child was nestled against my chest.

“Jesus,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“You okay?”

In the quiet semi-darkness of our bedroom, I hear myself breathing hard. I see the sheets quivering, and it shocks me to realize I’m shaking. “It was just a stupid dream.” Throwing the sheets aside, I start to get up.

He stops me. “Kate, hold on. You don’t have to leave.”

I sit with my legs over the side of the bed. The cool air feels good against my heated skin. I can feel the wet fabric of my T-shirt sticking to my back.

He moves across the bed to sit beside me. “You want to talk about it?”

For the first time I look at him, but I can’t hold his gaze and I look away. I’m on the verge of tears. I’m embarrassed because I don’t want him to see me like this. “Not really.”