“Then tell me why he’s in my kitchen.”
Megan did not answer in the doorway. That had been her own instruction, and she held to it the way a person holds to the one sentence they managed to get out. Darren set the glass on the half-wall between the entry and the kitchen because his hand had started to shake and a shaking glass was a worse speech than silence. Evan’s palm was still on the cream knit. The baby moved. He felt it. The feeling did not sort itself into joy or proof. It was only a kick against a hand that had been on a rifle sling that morning.
“Outside,” Megan said, to Darren, low.
Darren nodded. He did not look at Evan’s rank or his boots. He looked at the floor and went to the side door, the one that opened onto the strip of yard between their houses. The door clicked. The glass stayed on the half-wall with a ring of water already forming.