Chapter 13: Three A.M. Rules

Trudy woke at three every night that first week at my father's, and every night the porch light came on at two fifty-five.

I had stopped asking how Dalton knew.

He sat out there in his canvas jacket with a thermos and his back against the siding, and he waited for the sound of her through the wall.

On the ninth night the cold came down off the lake, and the thermometer by the kitchen window read four degrees.

I stood in the hall with Trudy against my shoulder and looked at the front door.

My father came out of his room in his undershirt and reading glasses.

"He's been out there since nine," my father said.

"Term three says the porch."

"Term three was written by a woman who wasn't holding a baby at three in the morning."

"Dad."

"I'm not letting him in for you," my father said. "I'm letting him in for her. That's a different rule, and I'm the one who makes it."

He opened the door.

Dalton stood up so fast the thermos rolled across the boards.

His beard had frost in it. His lips were gray.

"Sir," he said.

"Diaper table's in the back bedroom. You change her, you feed her the bottle from the fridge, and you put her down. Then you go back out."

"Yes, sir."

"Wipe your feet."

I heard my father go back to bed, pleased with himself.

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