August arrived like the climax of a long, heated symphony—days so hot the air itself seemed to pulse, cicadas screaming from dawn until the sun bled out in the west. The humidity wrapped the house in a damp embrace; even at night the temperature barely dipped, leaving skin perpetually slick, sheets kicked to the foot of the bed, fans whirring uselessly against the weight of the air. The peach orchard hung heavy with ripe fruit, the scent almost dizzying—sweet, overripe, intoxicating—carried on every breath of breeze that managed to stir the leaves.
Emily was thirty-eight weeks along now. Her belly was a full, taut moon, skin stretched shiny and warm, faint blue veins visible beneath the surface like rivers on a map. Every movement felt monumental; turning over in bed required planning, wa
