“Okay,” Chloe’s small voice murmured.
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Arthur heard the rustle of synthetic down insulation as the child burrowed into the bag.
“Now lay me down to sleep…” the child whispered, her voice fading into the soft, rhythmic cadence of the ancient bedtime prayer. “…I pray the Lord my soul to keep. God bless Mommy. God bless our camp. God bless Daddy in heaven. And please… please tell Santa that if he brings the warm coat with the hood… he can leave it right by the front tire.”
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The prayer ended.
Inside the container, a soft, ragged sound began.
It was not a child weeping.
It was the mother.
Now that her daughter’s eyes were closed, now that the mask of maternal certainty could no longer be seen by the only person she lived for, the woman was weeping with a raw, suffocating, silent agony that shook the thin steel walls of the dumpster. She wasn’t wailing; she was pressing her mouth into the sleeve of her coat, muffling her sobs so that not a single vibration of her terror would wake her sleeping child.
