Chapter 4 - The Illusions of Ownership
The amber light from the window caught the fine, golden hairs on Maya's arms.
She marched one deliberate step closer to the bed.
The camera shook slightly as the mother tried to keep the frame centered on the toddler's face.
Maya raised her right arm again.
This time, she extended her index finger straight out, pointing directly at the bald head resting in the white crater.
"Look."
She didn't look at the camera.
Her eyes were locked on the baby.
"He's acting like he owns it."
The baby’s mouth opened wide in a silent, gummy yawn.
His tiny fists, curled tightly into balls, stretched up toward the ceiling.
He brought his arms down slowly, his knuckles brushing against the high, soft ridges of the white pillowcase.
He grabbed a handful of the fluffy fabric.
He squeezed it tightly in his tiny fist.
Maya’s breath hitched loudly.
Her finger trembled in the air.
To the adult in the doorway, it was a random infant reflex.
To Maya, it was a hostile takeover.
It was a deliberate, calculated flex of squatters' rights.
She dropped her pointing finger.
She grabbed the hem of her pink onesie with both hands and twisted the fabric until her knuckles turned white.
The silence in the bedroom stretched tight, vibrating like a plucked guitar string.
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The only sound was the rhythmic, wet breathing of the baby, completely insulated in his stolen cotton fortress.
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