Aaron laughed once.
Quietly.
Brokenly.
"Okay."
Denise moved forward.
"No."
He raised one hand.
"Don't."
"Aaron."
"Don't defend her."
"You don't understand."
"I understand math."
"Aaron."
"He isn't mine."
Denise's face changed.
Not guilt.
Something else.
Pain.
Aaron caught it.
His eyes narrowed.
"Is he?"
Denise said nothing.
Aaron looked at the child again.
The eyes.
He had only seen them for a second when the baby stirred.
Dark hazel.
Aaron's eyes were hazel.
That meant nothing.
Babies had eyes.
Millions of people had hazel eyes.
He looked at the child's nose.
His mind hated itself for searching.
"Mom."
Denise whispered, "He is yours."
Aaron turned sharply.
"What?"
The baby stirred again.
Both adults became silent.
Noah made a small sound, then settled.
Aaron looked at his mother as if she had spoken another language.
"Say that again."
Denise swallowed.
"Noah is your son."
Aaron stared.
Then laughed.
This time there was no humor at all.
"I've been gone over two years."
"I know."
"He's maybe ten months old."
"Eleven."
"Good. So you understand why what you just said is impossible."
Denise nodded.
"It's not impossible."
Aaron's jaw tightened.
"Then explain it."
Before Denise could answer, the front door opened downstairs.
A woman's voice floated upward.
"Denise?"
Aaron stopped breathing.
Hannah.
There were sounds that captivity could not erase.
Her voice was one.
For twenty-six months, Aaron had reconstructed that voice from memory.
The way she said his name when angry.
The way she whispered during late-night conversations.
The laugh that began quietly and became uncontrollable whenever Aaron told a joke so bad she wanted to hate it.
He had repeated her words to himself in darkness.
Come home.
That was the last thing she said at the airport.
Come home.
Aaron had promised.
He had not known it would take more than two years.
Footsteps approached.
Denise looked at Aaron.
He could see panic.
Not because Hannah had done something wrong.
At least his mother did not look that way.
Something else was coming.
Hannah appeared at the top of the stairs carrying two grocery bags.
She saw Denise first.
Then Aaron.
The bags fell.
One split open.
A carton of milk rolled across the hallway.
Hannah did not move.
Neither did Aaron.
He had tried to imagine this face every night.
Now that it was in front of him, he could barely recognize it.
Not because she had changed dramatically.
Because reality contained details memory lost.
The small scar near her eyebrow.
The freckles across her nose.
The slight crease beside her mouth.
Her hair was shorter.