Tears ran down May’s ruddy cheeks as the memories fell on her shoulders, like heavy leaves in autumn. She quickly wiped them away, embarrassed at her reaction to feelings she’d buried long ago. Her best friend had disappeared so long ago, 1986, and had waltzed right up to her faded front door.

May remembered scanning the treeline for a car, finding none in sight. When Ella’d given her the unnamed little boy and the mint green diaper bag, she’d taken him upstairs to bed. When she’d returned, Ella was gone, the screen door swinging in the breeze.

May changed into flannel pajamas and curled around the infant, burying her head into his soft, honey-scented hair. He smelled like clean, fresh laundry, and May loved it. She fell asleep that night with the light on, the boy protectively encircled by her arms.

When she woke, the baby was just opening his eyes. She hurried downstairs, grabbed a bottle from the diaper bag and heated it, opening the windows to the morning air. It smelled like fire and emptiness.