The porch light flickered in October, casting a thin yellow ring on the wood. I came home from a double shift smelling of sawdust and motor oil, with my front door keys already in my hand, and almost tripped over them.
Three car seats, one diaper bag, and a note written on a gas receipt.
I picked up the receipt first because my brain refused to look at what was inside the car seats. My brother Daniel’s handwriting appeared slanted hard to the right, the way it always did.
