Somewhere in the distance, a baby’s high-pitched cry echoed. “I’m coming, sweetie,” Deven called though she couldn’t figure out which direction the bawling was coming from. The baby sounded like it was in pain which only caused Deven’s panic to soar. Too many babies. Stretching for miles. Which one was crying? Then another baby’s cry lifted to harmonize in a somber duet. Her twins. Her babies.

Something cracked beneath her shoe and Deven looked down. A baby’s arm had broken underneath her footstep, its limb now disjointed at a painful angle that had her swallowing a surge of bile. The cries echoed from somewhere and she collapsed, cradling the dead baby with the broken arm.

Deven woke up slightly disoriented, that overwhelming sense of disgust still seething in the pit of her belly. It took a moment for the room to stop spinning and she glanced around to get her bearings. Not her room. Kennedy’s. Last night’s horror materialized into focus. Rushing over to her sister’s house after her assault was not planned, but she prayed her presence had at least elicited a good night’s sleep for Kennedy. Lord knows she felt like a train wreck, having caught snatches of a turbulent slumber that had left her even more exhausted. Remnants of the nightmare hovered like a phantom in her head and Deven pressed her fingertips against her closed eyelids to clear that last little bit of sleep. She needed water. No, she needed air.

Deven tossed back the covers and threw her legs over the side of the bed. She steadied herself before pulling up on weakened limbs. The medicine Kennedy had given her last night was still doing the trick. No pain, thank God. She eased herself from the mattress and glanced backwards to Kennedy’s side of the bed, surprised when she realized it was empty. Morning light spilled onto sheets disheveled with swift abandonment. The digital clock on the accompanying nightstand illuminated the time with a harsh, red glow. 9:42 a.m. She hadn’t even felt Kennedy get up. But then again, she hadn’t expected to sleep so late.

Deven found Kennedy curled up in a corner of the couch. She sat propped with her feet placed on the cushion and knees pulled up to her chest, balancing a notebook on the flat part of her thighs. The top of a pen fluttered with fervor as Kennedy wrote. On the coffee table, her cell phone rested next to a champagne flute, foggy with pulp residue of whatever she had been sipping on.

Kennedy’s head whipped up as Deven padded into the living room. She seemed to visibly relax once she registered her sister’s presence. “I was wondering if you were going to get up today. You feeling a little better?”

Deven nodded, deciding not to mention the lingering trepidation from her nightmare.

“You need some more pain medicine or anything?” Kennedy asked.