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At the end of my lane, I get off and open the gate, and lead Mercy through. Then I put the chain up behind me. It's cold in my hand, and I loop it twice and drop the hook.

The yard light's already on.

Mercy walks back to the barn, and I get her set up with fresh hay and water.

Inside, the stove's cold and the house is quiet. I don't turn on more than the light over the sink. I set the bag on the second shelf of the refrigerator without opening it, and shut the door.

The phone's in my back pocket. I take it out and set it on the counter, and then pick it back up. I realize I never checked it after I got Dutch's call or before heading over there. And even worse, Mackie and I haven't talked at all today.

There are two pictures that came in a little after two my time, which is four hours ago.

I open the first one.

Both of them are on the floor on the quilt Lis made, the one with the yellow squares. Graham is on his back with his fists up by his ears. Hildie is beside him, turned half on her side.

The second one has Hildie with one hand out flat across Graham's face, her whole palm over his nose and his mouth and one eye. Graham's mouth is open like he's fixing to holler about it.

I go back to the first one, and then the second, and then the first. I stand there at the counter under the one light and look at them a good while after there's anything left in them to see.

I set the phone down on the table and turn off the light over the sink. I go to bed without answering her.

TWENTY

Mackie

And ye, beneath life's crushing load / Whose forms are bending low

Seven, ten, one, four, seven, ten, two. I could set a clock by my own body if my body still knew what a clock was. Feed Graham while Hildie fusses in the bassinet, then I feed Hildie while Graham drops off mid-swallow. Pump. Wash the parts in the sink and lay them on the dish towel, lie down, repeat.

Mom has been going in five days a week lately. It's like the minute I really need an extra set of hands, she takes on more hours. She leaves at nine and comes back after lunch, smelling like Sabal Point, that lemon cleaner over something underneath it. In between, it's me and nine hundred square feet and two people who together weigh less than a Thanksgiving turkey.

Carson doesn't return my call until nine at night. We didn’t talk at all yesterday.

"How was the day?"

"Monotonous. Yours?"

"Long."

"That's all I get?"

"Pulled bulls, moved pairs, fixed a fence." A pause, and the sound of him shifting. "I'm not being short with you. It's just been a long day."

"I know."

And I do. That's the part I can't get past. He asks about Graham's cheeks filling out and laughs when I tell him Hildie sneezed and startled herself. He's warm and listens. There's not one thing in it I could hold up and point at.

So why do I leave my phone face up and glance at it on every surface I pass?

Tuesday it buzzes on the kitchen counter, and I go for it fast and catch my hip on the corner hard enough to make my eyes water. It's the pharmacy telling me my refill's ready.

Mom's in the doorway with Hildie against her shoulder. She sees all of it, the lunge and the wince and my face falling over a text about labetalol. She doesn't say a word. She turns and walks a baby toward the window, and I can't decide whether I'd rather rage about it to her or act like nothing happened.

Wednesday, I get both of them from the car into the pediatrician's waiting room. I'm sweating through my shirt before I reach the desk.

"New patients," the woman says. "Here's your clipboard."

I've been here three times, but apparently nobody had the heart to hand the newly postpartum woman with twins a clipboard until now. The first page is easy. It asks for my name, address, employer, and insurance. Then I get to the second column where it asks for the father's name.