The Names

Cora’s mother always used to say children were whipped up by the wind, that even the quiet ones would come in after playtime made wild by it.

Cora feels it in herself now, that restlessness.

Outside, gusts lever at the fir trees behind the house and burst down the side passage to hurl themselves at the gate.

Inside, too, worries skitter and eddy. Because tomorrow—if morning comes, if the storm stops raging—Cora will register the name of her son.