“It’s okay, Frank. It’s all right.” She moves into the kitchen, both palms up. “Listen, I know you don’t want us here. Is your wife around? Evelyn? Can we have a chat with her? We’ve just had a tiny little report, and we need to check up on it.”

I edge into the kitchen and stand close to Minerva. The house is as long and straight as a shipping container, the kitchen sprawling into the living room, where, at the far end on a sofa with a missing cushion, a woman is sleeping facedown, wearing only an undershirt and panties. She sleeps as if dropped from a height, her limbs splayed. And it’s then, only then, that I see the baby.

He’s tiny and fast asleep, his face pressed dangerously against the cheap sponge of the couch cushion. He has nothing on but a diaper, the bulge of it round and tight like a soccer ball. The coloring of him, the tan and the sandy skin tones, the way his hair sticks up at the crown, the bumpy little muscles in his shoulders—it all grips me like a fist. He’s a carbon copy. I have to rescue this child, just like I had to rescue another one before him.

“My wife’s tired,” Frank says, tracking my gaze. “She banged her head.” He’s sweaty around the hairline, jerky in his movements.

“Should we call for an ambulance or bring her into the hospital?” I ask. Why isn’t Minerva rushing toward the baby? He’s clearly not safe. I take a step toward the couch but tread on something that skids under my shoe. A cooked pasta tube squelches into the peeling floor tile.

“No! She didn’t bang it that hard.” Frank runs a mitt of fingers through greasy strands of his hair. “Look, everything’s fine and shit. We’re just tired. It’s fucking difficult.”

“Can we sit down, Frank?” Minerva asks. She pulls out a seat before he’s responded and sits.

“What’s difficult?” I say. “Is it something we can help you with?”

“Having a baby.”

“Oh, steepest learning curve in the world!” Minerva says cheerfully. “I have a ten-year-old son, and I couldn’t tell you a thing about the first year of his life, Frank. It’s literally a blur. You probably won’t believe me, but I’ve been thinking lately that I wish I could do it all over again.”

“Yeah,” Frank says uncertainly.

“Is Mrs. Floyd finding it really hard, too?” I ask.

“Yeah. I suppose. Yeah, yes. Look, okay, my wife didn’t really bump her head.”

“No? Then can we wake her up, do you think? It’s really important that we speak with you both.” I wait, still standing, while Minerva sits tidily amid the carnage that surrounds her.