By noon, the town had opened its mouth.
Small towns do not need facts when they already have opinions. At the corner store, while Michael bought cloth diapers on credit, the men by the coffee machine lowered their voices just enough to make sure he heard. Michael’s lost his mind.
He can’t keep his own roof from leaking. Kids with no father or mother grow up wrong. Remember I said that.
Michael laid the diapers on the counter. The cashier, who knew exactly how little money he had, did not ask if he wanted anything else. She just wrote the amount in the little notebook where she kept track of people trying to make it to Friday.
Michael thanked her and left without turning around. People who have never counted change for bread always have advice for the hungry.
That evening he sat at his kitchen table with the baby asleep in a laundry basket lined with clean towels. The faded blue blanket lay across the back of the chair, freshly washed and still damp at one corner. Michael had no crib. No nursery. No plan that would impress anyone with a desk.
But when the baby stirred, Michael reached down and laid one finger in that tiny palm. The baby gripped him.
Michael named him Noah. He chose the name because it sounded steady. Like something built for bad weather.
His sister Sarah came over the next week. She stood on his front porch with her arms crossed while the small American flag tied to the railing tapped against the wood in the wind. She had always believed she was the practical one in the family. Practical, in Sarah’s mouth, usually meant cruel with a clean conscience.
“You’re still in time to give him up,” she said.
