Excerpts

Prologue The woman holds the baby close and ghost-dances by the window. She can see her reflection in the glass. She doesn't mind being awake with her little boy at this odd, witchy hour when everyone else is asleep. This moment is a secret that only they share. He is olive-skinned, familiar--although a far cry from her own pale coloring. It doesn't matter, she thinks. He's mine, and I'm keeping him.  Outside, the street is quiet. The mountains in the distance watch over the sleeping town. She concentrates on the cowrie-shell curl of his hand. His fingernails are tiny and perfect, little crescent moons in each one. Did she make those? In one of his hands is a worn old clothespin that he's been gripping for days. A dog's bark pierces the silence, and the baby startles and throws out his arms. How powerful babies are , she thinks. How vulnerable . She lifts her shirt and juggles him until he finds her breast. They fit perfectly together; they're made for each other. A few moments later, the baby unlatches, frustrated, and she prods at his lips, her brow darkening. "I'm sorry," she says to him. "Shhhh." He doesn't even try to latch again. Instead, he fusses and turns his head away. "Hey," she says, her voice louder. "It's just us now. You'll never see her again." The baby blinks, working up to a cry, and they stare at each other for a second, old souls reconnected, like there was never any loss before and nothing ever went wrong. "You're okay, little one, you're safe now. There, that's better." In a minute she'll fetch him formula from the fridge, warm it up, test the temperature of it against the tender flesh of her inner arm. She knows how to do all of this. She's a natural. Finally everything is exactly as it should be. Excerpted from Hurry Home by Roz Nay All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.