Dignity of risk is how I’d defend myself if I could, how I’d defend myself in court if they’d let me, how I’d defend myself to Children’s Services if they’d listen. I’d defend myself to anyone who’d ask, but no one asked. Our neighbors didn’t need to ask because without asking they were on our side. Frank said, That’s why my children don’t have birth certificates, even. My boss from the hardware store said, Take as many sick days as you need to. Deirdre said, Janice and I saw a drone. Bright lights. They’re always watching. The mill operator gave us some flour. Mike held his hat and said, When your boy comes back he’ll be different. You make one mistake. Of course, they didn’t say this directly to me, because I was sleeping. But they told Helen, and Helen stood outside the camper door and told me.

Dignity of risk. I wanted to believe it. But when I woke in the dark, or in the late afternoon alone, then I said into the musty silence, Unfit. Then I said, Guilty, guilty, guilty. If your baby had met a rabid animal he would have been bit, a sinkhole, he would have been swallowed. And look, he was bit. And look, he did fall into a sinkhole. He’s in a sinkhole now. Swallowed up. And there’s nothing you can do.

The lawyer, nice man, said, Wait. But I don’t like the man who tells me to wait. Never have. So even though Helen and Rudy and Karen tried to act like there was hope, like it was good to have a lawyer on our side, I knew that this lawyer wasn’t worth waking up for. My mother’s voice said, You deserve this. I shut it out. My grandma’s voice said, Girl, you need to get your behind out of bed and get to work. I shut her out, too. Helen would stand outside the door, telling me the news. I tried to listen. I tried to reply. I kept meaning to eat, to feed myself, to build my strength, to take action. I kept meaning not to sleep, but it didn’t take. I slept.