In her room, she shut the door, stripped off her dress, and pressed a cloth to her chest, expressing milk until the pressure eased. It felt like betrayal and necessity at the same time.
Then the crying upstairs changed.
It didn’t stop.
It ran on and on, weaker and weaker.
And then suddenly it stopped.
Janelle sat frozen, listening.
Above her, Marcus’s voice broke. “Come on. Please. Just try. Just once, please.”
Silence.
That silence had a shape Janelle recognized. The shape of a baby who was about to let go.
Her body rose before her mind agreed. She walked to the stairs. Her hand found the railing. Her knuckles went white.
Marcus had ordered her not to go.
He could throw her out. Send her back. Leave her on the road with nothing.
But the sound upstairs wasn’t a demand.
It was surrender.
Janelle climbed.
Each step creaked like the house was warning her.
At the loft doorway she paused, heart pounding.
The baby lay in the crib, unwrapped, tiny limbs barely moving. His lips were faintly blue. His chest rose so shallow it looked like a trick of light.
Janelle crossed the room and touched his hand.
Cold.
Too cold.
“Oh no,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”
She lifted him carefully. He was too light, like he was already becoming absence.
She held him against her chest and felt his breath, faint as a moth.
Milk soaked warm through her dress. Her hands shook.
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