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.
Michael stood in the doorway with Noah against his shoulder. The baby had milk on his cheek. Michael had not slept more than two hours at a time in seven days.
“Give him up to who?” he asked.
“To the people whose job it is. Child services. A proper home. Somebody with money. Somebody younger. Michael, he’s not yours. You don’t know where that baby came from.”
