Menagerie. Rachel Vincent

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      Twenty-five years ago...

      The heat rippling over the surface of Charity Marlow’s blacktop driveway was one hundred twelve degrees. It was nearly one hundred nine in the shade from the scrub brush that passed for trees in her front yard.

      She sat on a white iron bench in her backyard, picking at the paint flaking off the arm scrolls. A glass of sweet tea stood on the empty plant stand to her right, thinner on top, where the ice cubes melted, thicker on bottom, where the sugar settled.

      Inside, the baby was crying.

      She’d been going for close to three hours this time, and Charity’s arms ached from holding her. Her head throbbed and her feet were sore from standing. From pacing and rocking in place. Her throat was raw from crooning, her nerves shot from exhaustion, and her patience long worn thin.

      She’d decided to go inside again when the last ice cube had melted into her tea, and not a minute later.

      Not a minute earlier either, even though the top of her head felt close to combusting from the heat of the sun.

      She stared at the cracked earth beneath her feet, at the hands in her lap, watching her own fingers shake СКАЧАТЬ