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water warmed. She soaked the terry cloth, wrung it out, grabbing Trevor’s leg every time he squirmed, and gently wiped his hands, and then his face. “Okay Trevor, stand-up. Let’s get you out of these wet clothes.”
    Katy, her two-year-old bright-eyed angel, looked up. Trevor didn’t, instead he jammed the edge of the washcloth in his mouth and chewed. Those pale blue eyes held no recognition to her or anything she said. They appeared glassy unresponsive. “What’s wrong with you, Trevor?” Emily snapped her fingers. He didn’t even flinch, much less look up.
    “ Lift your arms.” She helped him to stand on the counter but then he reached fitfully for the damp washcloth she pulled from his mouth. And he shrieked. Emily pulled off his shirt and gave it back. He shoved it back in his mouth. Content for the moment suckling away, Emily hurried, cleaning him up.
    She carried Trevor the a way a mother does, resting on her hip, across the carpeted hall to a child’s large bedroom which held a toddler’s racing car bed and nightstand with a horsey lamp. There was also a tall mahogany, six-drawer highboy and a toy shelf filled with cars, stuffed toys and children’s books. Emily rummaged through the top two drawers until she found another long sleeve, dark blue cotton shirt with matching sweatpants and a pair of socks. She had no trouble pulling the shirt over his head and helping him to step into his pants; he was so focused on chewing on that rag. But when she tried to put on the white cotton socks, he threw the washcloth at Emily and whined a high pitch squeal as he pushed away her hands, kicking his feet against her legs. “Okay, so socks are not going to happen today. We’ll leave those for now.” Maybe that was why he’d been barefoot.
    He calmed down when Emily put the socks back in the drawer. Trevor raced for the discarded washcloth again jamming it in his mouth. “I’m not going to fight with you, Trevor. Keep the washcloth for now. Come on, Katy. Let’s go downstairs. This time she carried Katy and held Trevor’s hand down the back steps to the kitchen. Trevor never looked up, the way you expect a child to do with a tiny smile or fleeting look connecting in that personal way of non-verbal communication. Trevor focused on the spindle railing and his hand as he dragged it over each groove all the way to the bottom step.
    The screen door squealed and slapped against the wood frame. A stocky man about medium height wearing a green plaid loggers coat stalked in. Dirt caked his cowboy boots. He yanked down the brim of his black baseball cap, tufts of dark hair sticking out, and wore what must have been several days’ worth of black stubble on his round cheeks. “Hey boss, what do you want to do about the spring hay? You still want to order more from Harley? We can’t wait much longer. We only got enough for another few days.”
    “ Ah crap.” Brad glanced over his shoulder but didn’t get up from where he was crouched down in form fitting jeans, showcasing the perfect set of buns, before an open fridge. He snapped the lower bar back. The floor was now clean and a black garbage bag tucked against the cupboard. Trevor pulled his hand free and raced past the other man. “Eeegg, eeegg,” he screamed over and over, gesturing wildly to the fridge.
    Brad shut the door and Trevor slapped the shiny white door again and again.
    Brad suddenly appeared tired as he let out a heavy sigh. “What do you want? Is it juice?” The thick tension buckled the air in this large square kitchen. Trying to figure out what this child wanted was exhausting and Emily just stared.
    The strange man, who now stood beside Emily, rested his large, dirty hands on his hips.
    Brad ignored both of them and grabbed Trevor’s arm, “Come here.” He pulled open the fridge door and Trevor practically dove in for the carton of eggs. His dad lifted him with one arm and pulled him out, closing the door. “No way, how about a