My mother reached him first.
She touched his face with both hands, shaking violently.
“Nathaniel,” she whispered.
He collapsed into her arms.
My father wrapped both of them in his embrace, and the sound he made was not a sob, not a cry, but something deeper than language.
I had no time to watch.
Samuel was crying.
I lifted him from the bassinet and pressed him to my chest.
The world narrowed to warmth.
His face. His breath. His tiny furious cry.
“I’ve got you,” I sobbed. “Mommy’s got you.”
My body shook so hard I nearly fell, but Adrian caught my elbow.
I jerked away.
He let go immediately.
His shirt was soaked with blood.
Not mine.
His.
The gunshot.
“Adrian,” I breathed.
He looked down as if surprised.
A red stain spread across his ribs.
He gave a weak laugh. “I think I finally did one useful thing.”
