I got my coat. I got as far as the front step.
And my grandmother caught my wrist.
She had come out into the hall behind me and she moved faster than I have seen her move in five years, and she had a grip like wire.
She looked back over her shoulder at the dining room door. Then she pushed something into my hand.
A photograph. An old one, actual paper, curled at one corner.
And she said, very quietly, very fast:
« Midnight. Go to the address on the back. Go on now. Go. »
Then she pushed me out and shut the door.
I sat in my car outside my parents’ house and turned that photograph over about six times before I could actually see it.
It’s a young woman on a hospital bed holding a newborn.
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