She was sitting in the rocking chair, staring at the wall. The baby was still fussing, arching his back, fighting her.
“Fixed,” I said. “Just a clog.”
She looked at me and burst into fresh tears. “Thank you. I can’t pay you until the first of the month, but—”
“Stop it,” I snapped. Softening my tone, I added, “Neighbors don’t charge neighbors.”
I looked at the baby. “Go take a shower. A hot one. Wash your hair. You can’t take care of him if you don’t take care of you.”
“But he won’t—”
“I raised three of ’em,” I said. “Give him here.”
She hesitated, then handed him over. He was hot, sticky, and heavy.
She went into the bathroom. I heard the shower start.
The boy looked at me. I looked at him. He took a breath to scream, and I started humming.
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