Away for the Summer
by Shaindel Beers

Instead of finding the baby sleeping peacefully in the crib, Aimee found mounds of winter bedding—flannel sheets and comforters she was putting away for the summer. Panicked, she ran to the plastic storage tote still in the living room. Not a sound came from it. How much oxygen could it hold? Instinct prompted her to do two things simultaneously—rip off the lid and prepare herself. She had read somewhere that a dead baby feels like a sack of flour. She unsnapped the lid. She scooped up little Adeline who didn’t move. She was light as a feather. Plastic, like the tote. Her blue glass eyes popped open when Aimee held her upright, closed when she tilted her down. She had impossibly long Maybelline lashes. How would she explain to Tim when he came home from work? She climbed into the tote. It was 45 gallons, big enough for a king-sized comforter or a small woman on her back, knees pressed into her chest. It was dark, and she would try not to panic as the oxygen ran out. She had her dolly with her.