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Over the air conditioner, she hears, unmistakable, the bleating of a siren.

Their leader is a badly wounded boy in need of wounding others.

The baby in her belly is not a sibling, will never be their playmate.

Idzia is a little monster. For a monster, though, she’s awfully cute.

To keep the baby safe, we sealed the house as if against bad weather.

“Your mother’s fine,” Giuseppe said. “We’re all completely fine.”

If you tear down the web it will simply know this isn’t a place to call home.

Sundays, your wife at Mass, we locked ourselves in my room.

All that existed was Louisa’s beauty—or Khin’s refashioning of it.

I read that poem twice, didn’t I? I must have wanted to hear it again.

Most people come to Africa because they are drawn to its misery.

She wags her index finger so furiously that I’m certain it will snap off.

We all agreed we would evolve into something, a family of sorts.

His mother’s face had been that pretty, though more resigned.

Men can’t sense like that. Or won’t. Even a father don’t dare get that close.

My wife had time to form a thought: I have killed my daughter.

She rocks quickly from side to side, proud, lifting herself higher.

On a scale of 1 to 10, the pain dissolves like a Eucharist wafer.

It suddenly seemed to her that the world was filled with little miracles. There were moments when love overcame her despair.

The baby won’t sleep until 2 a.m., not until he poops and throws up.

She knew Jim would be a terrible husband. They’d murder each other.

Some goals: stop buying jeans. Stop being angry at mom/dad/sister.

I want these things to have another life, like the old garden behind our house.

Fearing for them, I clustered them together, then cut them off.

She takes her shirt at the waist and pulls it up slowly: her hips, belly, bra.

Having a sister or a friend is like sitting at night in a lighted house.

It’s way past 10 p.m. and we have no idea where our child is.