She reached for her phone.
Twelve missed calls.
Seven messages.
The last message was from Mrs. Linda.
Maya, please answer me. I’ve knocked and knocked. I can’t hear the baby anymore. Come home right now.
Maya read it once.
Then again.
The phone slipped from her hand.
For the first time in three days, she did not imagine herself trapped.
She imagined her son.
The yellow onesie.
The missing sock.
The tiny fingers near his cheek.
The crib in that silent room.
She drove home without saying anything to anyone. The entire way, she kept whispering that he was sleeping, that everything would be fine, that Mrs. Linda was overreacting, that babies were stronger than people thought.
But the closer she got to the building, the less she believed herself.
When Maya arrived, Mrs. Linda was waiting for her in the hallway. The elderly woman was still wearing her slippers, her face pale, one hand pressed against the wall as if she needed it to keep herself standing.
