“And last time,” my son said, “Grandma said peach cobbler.”
The hallway tilted.
I slid down the wall until I was crouched on the carpet, level with his face.
“Say that again, baby.”
“She said it in the wrong voice. Flat. Like a robot.” His chin wobbled. “That’s the secret word, Mom. That means Grandma needs help.”
“When?”
“Two times.” He held up two fingers, small and shaking. “The first time was at Grandma’s house, before the hospital. I was under the dining room table with my comic book. Uncle Craig didn’t know I was there. And then the second time, on Sunday, when you were at work. I was behind the sewing room door.”
“Oh, Wyatt.”
“Uncle Craig said not to say ‘cobbler.’ He said, ‘Not the cobbler again, Mom, say it clean.’”
The night-light hummed.
Somewhere in the house, the furnace clicked off.
“Did he see you?”
