But he shook his head and raised a finger to his lips.

“But—” I tried again, and he shook his head fiercely.

He held up a hand—wait—and left the room.

The tiny bundle in my arms was so warm, the little arms limp and the face slack, satiated with milk. Not even the tension hardening my muscles, not even the way I scooted back as if I could find extra protection against the window, made Grace stir. If something, someone, was in the house, I wouldn’t follow Michael, not while I was holding my baby like my naked heart in front of me.

I glanced around the room. Everything seemed so unprotected. I was the first thing you’d see if the door opened, and the crib was the second. Carefully, I lifted Grace, not sure if I would hide her on the floor of the closet or under the crib, but the door opened and Michael was back. This time he had a pad of paper in his hand and a pen, silver and glittery.

He bent and unplugged the night-light and the monitor with a single movement. As my eyes blinked, trying to adjust to the dark, he pulled me into the closet.

My heart pounded against Grace, snug and oblivious between us.

Michael pulled out his phone, and in its dim light I read, Say nothing. No lights. I’m not sure who’s listening or watching.

I reached for the phone, but he shook his head, mouthing, Not safe.

Suddenly, even in the enclosed center of my home, I felt completely exposed. And Michael looked wild, his eyes wide, his hands shaking. I reached up to touch his forehead, thinking maybe he has a fever, maybe he’s on drugs, and he closed his eyes, leaned into my touch with a ragged breath that was almost a sob.

I shifted Grace to one arm and took the pen, my writing awkward and wobbly as I scrawled, What’s going on?

He slipped the cell phone back into his pocket, but in the dark I could hear the pen moving over the paper. He pressed the pad back into my hand and raised the cell phone. I read: He might be watching, but we have to get to the car. Danger! Trust me!!

The last three words were underlined so hard that the pen had torn through the page and there was a dark smudge on the paper beneath them.

Grace gave a little cry, and I realized my grip had been tightening. “Okay,” I whispered. What else could I say? If there wasn’t any danger, humoring Michael wouldn’t hurt. If he was high or sick, I’d have to get him into the car anyway to get him to the hospital. And if there was danger and I didn’t listen to him, whatever happened next would be my fault.