by Matthew C. Dampier
‘So you have a handle on it?’
‘She won’t be dropped. You have my word.’
‘I’ll be here until tomorrow morning. You remember how to make a bottle, right?’
When she hung up, I took a bag of breast milk from the fridge and ran it under hot water. I filled a bottle and put it outside the hole in the hope that she would come to her senses for a nice hot meal. I laid the bait and prepared for a stakeout, dimming the lights and moving my chair back to where she wouldn’t be able to see it. I drank quietly and cracked each new can under a towel to muffle any noise that might startle her back into the walls.