“Good luck with that,” she plays in a whisper. “Because it doesn’t work.” A laugh slips from me and I curl my body around hers, taking backward steps toward the door. Right as I reach it, that soft croon turns into a cackled little cry. “Go feed your girl, little mama.” I spin and walk out. I’ll be back to feed mine. And I am. Exactly forty minutes later, I’m on her front porch. I go to ring the doorbell, to see if she was messing with me or not, but before I can, the door is slowly tugged open. Meyer stands there, her baggy sweater gone, and arms full. Her eyes meet mine, a hint of
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