Oliver James Bennett

Chapter 1: Index Card

The first thing Anna bought for her son was not a blanket or a pair of tiny shoes.

It was a packet of white index cards.

They were ordinary cards, the kind sold beside envelopes and printer paper at the pharmacy. On the first one, she wrote the name in blue ink:

Oliver James Bennett

She placed the card against the small wooden shelf in the nursery, between a stuffed rabbit and an unopened box of diapers. The room still smelled of fresh paint and sawdust. Afternoon light fell through the blinds, making pale stripes across the carpet.

Anna stood in the doorway with one hand beneath her stomach.

“Oliver James,” she whispered.

The baby moved.

It was not a strong kick, only a soft turning, like someone rolling over beneath a blanket. Still, Anna smiled.

“I think he likes it,” she called.