He drove slowly, softly, easing the car over humps in the brick street. For once, the radio was off and all we could hear was the wind blowing new rain out of the trees and onto the windshield.

“Use your wipers,” I whispered.

“They squeak,” he whispered back. “I don’t want to make any noise.”

I smiled at him and slid my hand over my belly, where she used to live. He didn’t care about noise then. Did we think she couldn’t hear from inside of me? I couldn’t remember what we thought. The two days since she’d appeared, all angry wails and fists balled into tight wads, felt longer than all of the days we’d waited for her. Longer than all of the days we’d spent chasing dust and dog hair out of the corners and crevices, so the house would be perfect for her.

He parked the car on Third Street, under the flickering street lamp, and we twisted in our seats. She was asleep, her nearly bald head tipped to the side, her tiny lips parted in the middle. He reached over the headrest and slid the back of his finger down her arm.

“We’re home,” he whispered.