“Nothing. I just don’t know what to do.” He climbed into the back seat to ride up to the house.

“I’ll tell you, I was really scared yesterday, but it turned out all right. I thought she was dying.”

Angelina snoozed on the kitchen step. It was one of the only times the door to the house was closed. Rennel stopped the car quietly. We eased out and looked at Sam. He nodded toward the closed door.

“They’re asleep, I think,” he said.

“Did she have a hard time?” I asked.

“Well…” He looked at the ground. “You would have thought so if you’d seen her. But we went around to Doc Bump afterward and he said she was fine. Didn’t even need a stitch. And the baby’s fine. All he does is sleep.”

We all stood awkwardly looking at the kitchen door.

“Well.” Sam reached for the doorknob. We stepped over Angelina’s body as quietly as possible. The cords in Rennel’s neck flexed. Once we were inside, Sam stopped and ran his hand over his hair. The smell of disinfectant was faint but still detectable. It had sunk into everything.

“Aram?” Carlotta’s voice. She sounded normal. Sam disappeared and came back smiling.

“She wants some tea.”

He put the teapot on. I could tell he was delighted to do these things. He beamed at the pop of the gas igniting.

“Shall I go see her?” I asked.

“Please, yeah.”

I tiptoed into the living room. There was no sign of a baby. Three cushions lay in a line with a blanket crumpled across them. She must have been sleeping there. The door to the bedroom was open. It was dim.

“Carlotta.” I stepped inside.

“Hi. I was just taking a nap.” She sat against the wall on the mattress. Her dress was blue. The gray shawl fell from her hair, rested softly on her shoulders.

“Where is he?”

“Here.”

Our soft voices fell lightly in the room. I bent clumsily in the doorway to take my boots off. Walked on the mattress and crouched beside her, where the baby lay in a box. Looked in at the little boy. His tiny face was like a clenched fist, and he was tied up in a cone-shaped bundle. Black, wet threads of hair on his head. I looked at Carlotta as she stared into the box. The muscles of her face were slack. Her eyes were dark, fixed on the small thing breathing. When she finally looked at me, I tried to smile, but it felt strange. Sam came in with a bowl of tea in each hand. He bent tenderly to Carlotta.

“There’s milk and sugar in it.”

She glanced at him, took the bowl, and then looked back at her baby. Sam handed the other bowl to me and crouched at the edge of the mattress.

“Well, what do you think?”