Inside, Eddie Munson was trying to get a baby to sleep.

The kid—five months old, big brown eyes, a tuft of black hair like his own—was having none of it. Eddie had been pacing the living room for forty minutes, bouncing her against his shoulder in a rhythm that was part lullaby, part prayer. One hand cradled her head, the fingers splayed too big against her tiny back.

She stared up at him. Perfectly still, perfectly quiet, and absolutely wide awake.

The weight of her against his chest was still a novelty—an alarm, a permanent shift. Some days he looked in the mirror and didn't recognize the freak who used to stand there. Now he kept his hair shorter, always a smell of baby powder in the air around him, a bag of diapers instead of a lunchbox.

From the open doorway came a sound he knew better than his own heartbeat. Methodical. Work boots on gravel and then on porch steps.

Wayne Munson appeared, jacket worn at the shoulders, a lunch pail in one hand. He took in the scene with one tired glance.

He felt a small tug of his shirt. From the baby. The little fist pulled loose from her swaddle, hidden somewhere inside. He didn't move. It was the first time that day he'd felt completely real.