It happened at three a.m., which was, Lina thought, entirely appropriate.
Three a.m. had been the hour of reckoning for the past fifteen months: the bathroom floor conversations, the notebook entries, the almost-calls and the not-calls and the two-forty-seven a.m. call to Maggie that had produced a direction and a name.
Three a.m. was when the real things announced themselves.
Ivy was eight months old. She had been on the verge of language for three weeks — sounds with intent, consonants showing up, the quality of her vocalisations shifting from feeling to something that was reaching toward meaning. Lina had been watching it with the particular attention of someone who knew what was coming and was not going to miss it.
She had not expected it at three a.m.
Ivy woke — not crying, just awake, which happened sometimes, the specific alertness of a person who had woken with something to do. Lina heard her on the monitor and went in.
