Fiction | July 14, 2015

Three am, four am, the inky blot of time between night and dawn, she sat up in bed covered in sweat. There were no dreams to blame. She’d stopped dreaming. It was like her body knew she no longer needed to dream, that she had stepped into a reality more surreal. The baby could be retarded. The baby could be autistic. The baby could have a congenital defect, faulty DNA. The baby could have a less determinate problem— could be mean or exhausting or ugly. Really, this baby could be anybody.

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