They wanted my suffering placed beside errands and weather until it seemed no more important than either one.
I listened anyway.
Every careless sentence told me who knew what.
My husband’s mother reminded him that he should make me repeat the lesson before letting me out.
Mara asked whether they were really going to leave me there another night.
He said that depended on my attitude.
Mara did not object.
She only asked whether someone should move the pitcher inside before it rained.
The baby shifted again, lower this time.
I tried to change my breathing so they would not see the fear in it.
I did not know how long my body could endure the pressure.
I did not know whether the numbness in my foot meant anything permanent.
I did not know whether the recordings had uploaded, saved, or failed.
I knew only that the phone was still there.
Late that afternoon, clouds passed over the yard and the temperature dropped.
The damp soil cooled quickly around my shoulders.
My husband’s mother went inside, leaving the screen door partly open.
Mara carried her empty cup to the porch but left the lawn chair where it was.
My husband remained near the railing, scrolling on his own phone.
For several minutes, the backyard was quiet except for traffic somewhere beyond the fence and the faint hum of an outdoor unit beside the house.
Then the phone beneath the soil vibrated.
It was stronger than the recording signal.
Longer.
Mara turned toward the sound.
“What was that?” she asked.
My heart kicked hard enough that I thought the dirt around my chest might move.
Mara looked toward the fence.
“Probably the sprinkler timer,” she said, although the sprinkler box was attached to the opposite fence.
My husband did not answer her.
He lowered his phone.
His eyes moved across the ground near my head, then stopped at my right shoulder.
The laughter left the porch without anyone saying a word.
He stepped down into the yard.
Each footfall came faster than the last.
I kept my mouth sealed around the straw.
