Shadows
Leah stops in the middle of the street. Her eyes snag on Baxter, now wrapped in my shirt. “What the f**k?” Her eyes move from him to me, from me to him.
“Amy!” It’s Mom, running toward me. “Amy, oh my God!” She moves in for a hug.
“Mom, wait! The baby—”
Mom stumbles back, looks from me to the baby, face entirely slack. Officer Franklin’s a few steps behind her, her face grave.
“He’s not mine,” I say, jogging to Officer Franklin. “He needs food,” I stammer as I give her Baxter. “Milk or, uh, what’s-it-called, formula—”
“Where’d you find him?”
“In the hills.”
“What hills?”
“Amy? Sweetie?” Dad’s lumbering down the street. His eyes are small and red. For a fraction of a second, I see him as Richie MacLeod, six years old, face streaked by soot. Blazing Inferno in the Heart of H
