I was thinking she was probably right.
« That’s June, » Mrs. Hunter said quietly. « Patricia made sure we’d know how to tell them apart. Said the smallest one would always be June. »
« June, » I repeated, saying the name as if I were testing whether my mouth still worked.
Baby June kept holding on. She didn’t know I had no money, had never changed a diaper, or that her father had abandoned them. She just knew someone was there.
« I’ll call social services in the morning, » my neighbor said gently. « There are good families, Noah. Ready people. »
Baby June kept holding on.
I opened my mouth to agree. I really did.
« Okay, » I whispered instead, but I was looking at June. « Okay. Okay, I’ve got you. »
Mrs. Hunter went quiet. The porch light flickered again.
I carried them inside one at a time, and somewhere between the second trip and the third, I stopped being Uncle Noah and started being something I didn’t have a word for yet.
