Alone in the spacious “community room,” where a few plastic chairs were scattered about and a series of inspirational posters aimed at children lined the walls, I unbuckled Grace from her car seat, trying not to look at or think about the smudges on her pajamas from Michael’s bloody hands.

As I’d feared, her diaper was squishy, but she didn’t smell and I hoped it was only wet. She was already making her little complaining, grunting cries, but she wasn’t wailing full throttle. I shut the door to the hallway and chose a chair not in the line of sight from the room’s small window. Although the police station was probably riddled with cameras.

Even a starving baby will rebel against tension in your body, fight and wail. And Grace had to eat. I didn’t know how long we’d be here, but my nerves were raw and throbbing, and if she started to howl, I didn’t know what I’d do. Break into a million pieces, shatter, howl myself.

I squeezed my eyes shut, took one breath, slowed it down, and took another. Carefully, I tucked Grace under my T-shirt. She tensed, and I tensed, and she arched her back with a shrill cry.

One more breath, my slowest yet, and I crooned the first few bars of my mother’s favorite lullaby: “Too-ra-loo-ra.” Finally, she latched on, and my entire body was flooded with visceral relief.

How had we gotten here? The evening had been so ordinary, so normal. I closed my eyes, remembering. After dinner, Michael had taken Grace for her “bath,” really just a wipe-down with a warm damp cloth run under her chin and around the folds on her arms and legs. I’d cleared the table, savoring the way the light slanted through our front windows. Early evening, and my family was home together. Everything felt so right.

He’d brought her back and given her to me. If all went well, we’d have an hour or so until she needed to be fed again, and then if I was smart, I’d go to bed early.

But this night she’d reared up and started rooting on my shoulder, patting with her little hand and making insistent grunts. She wasn’t going to wait an hour. She wasn’t going to wait fifteen minutes.

“Do you want to watch something?” I’d asked.

“Sure.” Michael picked up the remote, but before he could do more than click the television on, there was a tap at our back patio door. My arms tightened around Grace, but then I saw it was only Brady.

Michael tossed me the remote. “Back in a few.”

I’d found a channel showing old sitcoms, and to the syncopation of the familiar dialogue, I positioned Grace. She latched on and nursed with greedy gulps, her tiny fingers curling and flexing.