Jeffrey and George were standing on the mat in their pajamas.
Jeffrey’s had little silver rockets on them.
George’s had green dinosaurs.
They were two years old, and they were holding hands.
Behind them sat a black trash bag with the top twisted shut.
It smelled like baby powder and spilled apple juice.
Camille stood at the bottom of the steps in a cream-colored coat and sunglasses.
A new Cartier bracelet flashed on her wrist when she pushed the bag toward me with her foot.
“I’m not meant for this kind of life,” she said flatly. “I want to live freely.”
I said her name.
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