He hung up. The message was imperfect, too long, a little formal at the end. It was his voice. That would have to be the start.
He did not sleep so much as drift in the squeaking chair, waking whenever Amara turned. Once, near two, he heard Claire in the kitchen, a glass set down carefully, and then her footsteps returning to the guest room. He did not go to her. Wanting to comfort the person who had made the child cry was a true want and a bad errand for this hour. He stayed with the smaller breathing.
Near dawn the rain stopped. The house ticked as old wood ticks when the weather changes its mind. Amara woke all at once, the way she did, from nothing to conversation.
"Dada," she said, pleased to discover him in the wrong room.
"I'm here."
She stood in the crib and lifted her arms. He picked her up. She was warm and slightly sour and entirely present. She looked toward the door.
"Mommy picture," she said, not crying yet, only placing an order.
"Okay," he said. "We can go see her. She stays on the dresser. Nobody is putting her in a drawer. If you want her, you say so, and we look."
"Look," Amara said, trying the word.