In the early hours of the morning, you're awakened by a scream loud enough to wake the dead, and the softer turn of the doorknob. You would recognize a sound from your son's lips in a crowd of thousands; now, your heart constricts painfully in your chest. You know his movements, know the soft sounds he makes, feels him in the deep instinctive part of you that makes milk, that has no words, where there is love.

Is this some kind of trick?

Why have they taken your son away, only to bring him back again?

It's the cruellest kind of torture.

Belatedly, you realise that the mussed, untidy hair of the shadowy figure belongs to your husband.

You stare at him with wide, wet eyes, your gaze flitting from his face to your baby, cradled tenderly in his arms. If it's even possible, Satoru's screams increase in volume. He's revving up, shrieking in objection to the indignity of being kept apart from his mother. His little hands grasp into fists again and again as he struggles and reaches out for you. The sound of his cry pierces right through you, spearing you to the bed. Your eyes burn and prick.

In response, your husband moves close to the bed, depositing Satoru in your arms. Your body remembers what your heart yearns to forget, and fits him against your chest. This soothes the crying. Satoru sniffles, loudly, wetly, and turns his face into you. His upper lip is caked with snot and his cheeks are streaked with saltwater tracks. You use your nightgown to dab at his sopping wet face, unconcerned of the dampness saturating the fabric, clinging uncomfortably to your skin.

Your husband watches you. "The elders thought it would be best if Satoru remained in your care."

"What?" Your breath rattles in your chest. You can feel the tears brimming in your eyes. You have to swallow past the lump in your throat before you can speak again. "What?"

"You want the list of his offences?" You think your husband's lips quirk up in the barest hint of a smile.

Hope is filling you then, and it's a terrible, delicious feeling. You want to laugh. You want to cry. Whichever comes first, the other is sure to follow. "There – There's a list?"

"He spat up on one elder, vomited on another, tried to bite everyone, cried the whole day and refused to eat."

Satoru nudges at you, making snuffling, rooting sounds. You murmur soothing things, nonsense things, prayers and reassurances as you unbutton your nightgown and nurse him. He latches on quickly, easily, while his little fingers pat yours.

"You little monster." You say to Satoru, smiling wetly at him with so much gloating affection that the criticism is entirely weightless. "What am I going to do with you, huh?"

Nestled safely in your arms once again, Satoru's crystalline gaze flickers to yours.

You swear he smiles.