Left on the dresser, the last time he emptied his pockets before dying on the bathroom floor, a jackknife, a folded-up note, and two bits.
Look in the garage attic. Just pull the rope and the stairs will come down. It’s probably been twenty years since we’ve been up there but I know that’s where she’s hiding. I hear her sometimes late at night, skittering around, scratching.
We bore a hole in your head for the implant and then we attach a receiver that looks like you’re radioing Mars, then you’ll hear things you haven’t heard in years and it will drive you crazy and then you’ll be better.
It was the third time this week, a half sheet of yellow paper stuck under the driver’s side windshield wiper, the writing neat to start but wild and flared at the end, the message the same each day, look for it inside.
It belongs to his uncle. He said we could stay here. It’s only temporary. It’s warm in the kitchen with the stove on. The baby’s fine. She’s with us. We won’t let those people on the porch come in. Don’t worry, Mom.
You could lose your shirt, your heart, your mind, sacrifice your time and your plan, forget your goals and the order of your day, erase what you thought mattered, end the life you have if you decide to adopt someone else’s baby.