Warm.
I was warm.
She pressed two fingertips beneath my jaw.
I saw the instant she felt the pulse.
My mother’s entire body shook.
But instead of screaming—
She leaned down as if kissing my forehead.
Her lips touched my ear.
And she whispered:
“Do not move.
Do not let them know.
I’m getting you out.”
For the first time since waking, I felt something stronger than terror.
Hope.
My mother lowered the lid again.
Then, standing over the coffin containing her living daughter, she began to scream.
Not for help.
Not yet.
She screamed the way grieving mothers are expected to scream.
“My baby!”
The door burst open.
Relatives rushed inside.
Deborah collapsed dramatically against my Aunt Corinne.
Someone called for water.
Someone else shouted for Preston.
And through the noise, I heard my mother say exactly what she needed to say.
“Her makeup is wrong.
She looks gray.
