"Hurry it up. Don't go touching things that aren't yours. Country folk never do have any manners."
Her attention swung back to the woman almost instantly. She waved her over, patting the seat beside her, face bright with warmth.
"Wanda Simmons, did the baby move today? Any kicking? Let me tell you, when Oswald was little, he kicked like crazy too…"
I knelt on the floor, dragging the rag across the carpet, scrubbing at the medicine stain over and over.
My knees pressed into the cold tile. Serena's laughter floated out from the bedroom in waves.
Her voice sounded so much stronger than it had three years ago.
Back then, she'd lain on that wooden plank bed in the old house, mumbling the same thing day after day. My son is gone. I don't want to live either.
I wiped the last stain clean and stood up.
Oswald was leaning against the wall by the entryway, hands shoved in his pockets, his face completely blank as he waited for me to leave.
"Who are you, really?"
I squeezed the rag in my fist.
"I told you. I don't know you. Get out."
"If you don't leave now, I'm calling security."
His voice was flat. Not a single crack in it.