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The snow under Mia turned red before she understood that the sound tearing through the driveway was her own scream.
Above her, Evan’s pickup rolled away from the curb with their baby’s crib strapped in the back.
The crib looked wrong out there in the open air.
It belonged in the nursery, under the soft gray light from the window, beside the rocking chair and the little basket of folded burp cloths.
It did not belong tied down with orange straps in the bed of a truck like scrap wood from a renovation.
Three days before her due date, Mia had woken up with the heavy, restless ache that had become her normal.
Her ankles were swollen.
Her lower back hurt.
The baby shifted every few minutes, pressing hard under her ribs as if even she knew the house had stopped being peaceful.
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