It's daybreak and we're just outside of Memphis. The baby's breathing is like raspy road noise. Oncoming headlights pierce the fog and spread like spilled milk on the wet windshield. You stir in your seat, fighting a nightmare or reality. You told me he wasn't mine and I wanted to believe you, to be free from it all. But you called last night, needing a ride to Saint Jude's, and I knew you had lied. Steel girders carry us over the Mississippi, taillights flash red and traffic stops. We are caught between two states and the currents churn in the murky waters beneath us. Trucks and cars idle; exhaust is pumped into the fog and wraps us in toxic fumes. He coughs. I turn to check on him. From here, we'll have to crawl forward.
A Gate at the Stairs