“You look like a crazy man when you smile,” said Vern.

But Paul wasn’t listening to Vern anymore, he was too busy staring at the photo. He felt something warm in his chest, right beneath his breastbone. The baby looked good in his arms, and it made him feel every bit as good as the picture looked.

“Have mercy,” said Paul. “Ain’t I one devastatingly handsome man.”

Twelve
Dizzy Redhead

“Please,” Marigold said aloud to the sky. She was alone in the woods next to a winding gray creek. There wasn’t a soul for miles.

“Please,” she said again.

Her chest felt bruised, a painful reminder that her child desperately needed her. Marigold cried so hard it made her vomit. But she had nothing in her belly to throw up since she hadn’t eaten for days. Her bile was pink-colored. She was dizzy. Her mouth was acidic. Each time she retched and let go of her stomach, she felt more light-headed. The world was spinning.

Maggie was gone. Taken. Dead, maybe. Maybe an animal had gotten her. Maybe people had kidnapped her.

Stupid! she thought to herself. She felt embarrassed. “How could I?” she moaned. Her voice sounded pathetic, even to her own ears. All she could manage to say was her baby’s name. She said it a hundred times. Then a hundred more.

She retched again.

The sun fell low. The night was closing in, making her feel more terrified. The woods began to frighten her. Tall trees towered overhead and blocked the moonlight. The bay had grown still; the birds had quit moving.

Her vomiting gave way to crying, which gave way to groaning. It was an instinct. She felt like a body part had been stolen from her. Like someone had cut off her hands. Or her feet. Or her heart. She touched her belly where she’d carried Maggie for so long. The skin was still loose. She pressed her face into the pine straw where Maggie had been. She sniffed. She could still smell her child. Or could she? The smell was already fading.

She went limp. Her muscles were tired from the sobbing. It was as though she were watching herself from a spot miles above herself. She drew herself into a ball. Never had she needed something to hold in her arms so badly. So she held a rock. A rock that was the size of a bread loaf. She held it long enough that the rock became warm in her arms.

“Please,” she said. “Please bring back my Maggie.”

Thirteen
Peanut Butter

E. P. wiped a peanut butter–loaded butter knife on a piece of white bread. Blake couldn’t stop looking at it.