A small pale figure on the fence. Bare feet on the cold asphalt. One hand pressed awkwardly to the chest. And on the other hand, wrapped in a thin pink blanket, the baby made a soft, wet sound, barely audible crying.
It was a Tuesday in November, just after nine P.M., on a deserted stretch of I-75 north of Dayton, where the warehouses had been plunged into darkness since seven, and trucks were rolling down the right lane like a gray river that never ended.
Daniel's radio was quiet.
His coffee was cold in the cup holder.
He had just returned from a charity dinner, from that night when people in suits clinked glasses, said the word “influence” and wrote checks that made them feel useful before returning home to clean the house and get into warm beds.
He wasn't thinking about anything.
Actually, no.
Maybe about the speech he just heard. Maybe about traffic jams. Maybe about Sarah, his wife, and how she used to hum the weather forecast without even realizing it.
Sarah had been gone for five years.
And over the last five years, Daniel has become very good at shifting things to people who seemed more qualified. Lawyer. Board members. Fund managers. Committee. He gave money. He signed documents. He attended dinners. He allowed other people to be in places where the pain was really living.
Then his headlights shone on a small figure near the guardrail and he released the gas pedal before he could explain anything.
Child.
Barefoot.
I am carrying something.
He passed her before stopping.
This was the truth.
