Greg was kneeling in the flower bed in his pajama pants, dirt already ground into the knees. One arm cradled something small and still against his chest, wrapped in a scrap of fading blue wool I would have recognized anywhere — my mother’s blanket, the one meant for our son, now swaddled around something that was not our son at all. In his other hand, he gripped the little garden shovel we kept by the shed, and he was digging.
For one terrible, lightheaded second, my mind went somewhere it had no business going.
“Greg?” I said, and this time it came out sharp.
He spun around so fast a clod of dirt flew off the shovel. “Laura!”
I was already at the back door, throwing it open. “What are you doing?”
“Stop shouting, you’ll scare her.”
“Why are you digging a hole in our yard at two in the morning?”
