The futon stopped halfway whenever I tried to unfold it.
I had never changed a diaper.
One of the babies made a small hiccupping sound.
I looked down.
Two of the girls were asleep.
The smallest one was awake, staring at me with gray eyes that looked exactly like our mother’s.
“Hello,” I whispered.
She blinked.
Then the door beside mine opened.
My neighbor, Mrs. Fenwick, stepped into the hallway wearing a blue bathrobe and slippers shaped like sheep.
She had lived next door for six years and had never once considered privacy a virtue.
That night, it saved me.
“Reid, why are there babies on the porch?”
“They’re Callan’s.”
Her eyes widened.
“All three?”
I held up the note.
“He left them.”
“Left them where?”
“Here.”
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know.”
Mrs. Fenwick snatched the receipt from my hand.
She read it twice.
