The smell of tobacco. Not cigarettes per se, not smoke, just tobacco. Like what pipes smell like, or cigars for people new to cigars and not so tongue-worn that stronger nasty stuff is required. What her father used to smell like. A sweet smell. Three houses ahead, on the right, a pumpkin, bright orange, fat, leering, grinning, laughing despite the hole kicked in one side. Even the best neighborhoods have hoodlums. Especially the best neighborhoods have hoodlums.

Algebra. Baby's slept two hours at a time, ten times a day, for three weeks. That makes more sleep than she's had in the last thirteen months. Father dies, mother stoops, go with her to church, meet a man, date a man, sleep with a man, get pregnant by a man, don't even bother wondering where the man went. Those two blissful weeks when she knew she was pregnant and didn't have to tell anyone, and he was there every Wednesday night.

A dog barking in the distance. Waiting for other dogs to join the howl, but it's only afternoon, not night time, no moon, no prowlers, no ghosts. Not yet. In a few weeks the baby will be old enough to still be too young to eat leftover Halloween candy. Thump goes the feet on the porch, ding dong goes the bell, tense goes the neck not looking at the baby in the crib in the dark. Ding dong ding dong, baby doesn't wake up, thump go the feet on the porch. She's lucky, later, the kids threw eggs. Only eggs.

An intersection, one tree-lined street meets another, the asphalt slippery silver in confused lamps turning on too early. That overcast sky, those clouds made of last summer's sunshine. What do you mean, you're pregnant. Ma, it was Gideon, the one from church. That's impossible, he seemed like such a nice man. I know. When are you due? October, probably. Probably? I haven't been eating well, Ma. Me neither, not since your father passed.

Turn left, go several miles, her mother's house. Turn right, go several blocks, the church. Go straight, several towns, the ocean. Turn around, the baby. Which direction to Gideon. She looks up. Hi dad. She looks down. What do I do now.

She keeps walking. If it were sunny out, she might have freckles. She'd be nowhere near a cable knit sweater. Her breasts would be small and free inside something strappy and light, freckles on her shoulders, freckles on her arms. Her breasts would not be slung into a couple of rough sacks, heavy with whatever she was supposed to eat last week when the baby kept her up all night. You're dry, Delilah, you won't feed, you're not cold, why can't you sleep? Do you take after your father? Did he ever sleep?

She walks another few blocks, the wind brushes her cheeks, plays with her hair, makes her warm and cold at the same time. On the phone at three am. Who is this. Ma, it's me Ma, oh Ma, why won't she sleep? What? What do I do, she won't sleep, I'm so tired. Just leave her, you idiot. But she cries all night, what do I do. Make sure she's safe and go to sleep. Is that? Is that what? Is that what you did with me? Good heavens. Sitting there in the dark letting the baby's wails pulse the dial tone in and out of her ears.

Algebra. She has neighbors, she must have neighbors, there's trash cans outside by the curb once a week, and then gone again. There's yards that are mowed and then not mowed and them mowed again. Not every house gets egged, some of them had porch lights burning on Halloween. If baby cries for an hour and then screams for two, surely someone will hear. Someone will come, thump thump goes the feet on the porch, ding dong goes the bell, wail wail goes the baby, maybe a knock on the door, the door is ajar, the baby is found. And taken away. Yes?