“Access visits, Morris,” Sully says, as I hurry to get all the glass jars I’ve stored for Will in the freezer—I’ve drawn a love heart on each one in red Sharpie.

“Do your job properly. This mother has rights.”

“Yes, well, she does and she doesn’t,” Morris says. He takes the jars, his smile tight. “I’m working on it. Leave it with me.”

But as I head into the second week without my son, I hear nothing. Feel nothing. I’m given nothing to hold on to.

The following Tuesday—nine days since I’ve been living in Sully’s house—he makes me chicken soup from scratch while I sit at the kitchen table. It’s lunchtime, although markers like that seem to have lost all purchase with me.

“Did you shower this morning?” Sully doesn’t turn. The muscles in his back move under his shirt as he stirs. “You have to keep going, Ruth. It’s not just enough to eat food and drink water. I know it’s hard, but all the basics are really important. You have to keep your head up.”

“I can’t,” I say. “I need my son. I need Will.” I think of the smell of his hair when he slept against my throat, how his fingers gripped the front of my hospital gown when they pulled him away.

Sully stops stirring and turns. “We’re going to get him back. You have to believe me. We’re going to find a way.”

I nod, my mouth pasty, and toy with the saltshaker on the place mat. Sully said he would dig into the things Alex has done, but clearly his investigation isn’t yielding anything we can use. He isn’t saying so directly, but it’s been over a week now, and the inference is he’s not making headway. I try to swallow, but my throat feels gummed. Any minute now, he’ll hand me a bowl of soup and the steam that rises to meet my face will be nauseating.

“Hasn’t Eli said anything at all?” I ask.

Sully shuts a cupboard door firmly. “He refuses to make a statement. So far I haven’t been able to get him to admit to anything that’s not already on his file.”

My blinks feel heavy. “When will Morris let me see Will?”

Sully shakes his head by the stove. “Normally you’d have had access by now. Alex is blocking you.”

By my feet, Gravy lets out an ancient sigh.

Sully sets a blue ceramic bowl onto the table, watches me wait to look down at the soup. “Give it a try, Ruth. Think of it all as fuel, and not just for breast milk. If you’re going to fight for your son against someone as manipulative as Alex, you’re going to need gas in the tank.”