I was thinking he was probably right.
“That’s June,” said Hunter quietly. “Patricia made sure we knew how to distinguish them. He said the youngest would always be June.”
“June,” I repeated, saying the name as if I were testing if my mouth was still working.
Baby June was still holding on. He didn’t know he had no money, he had never changed a diaper, or that his father had abandoned them. She just knew someone was there.
“I will call the social services in the morning,” my neighbor said softly. “There are good families, Noah. People ready.”
Baby June was still holding on.
I opened my mouth to agree. I really did.
“Okay,” I whispered instead, but I was looking at June. All right, I have you.”
Mrs. Hunter kept quiet. The porch light flashed again.
I was wearing them one at a time, and somewhere between the second trip and the third, I stopped being Uncle Noah and started to be something I didn’t have a word for yet.
