“Please, don’t hang up,” the woman breathed. “My name is Vivian. Did the blankets arrive? Are the girls safe?” My blood ran cold. I asked how she knew about my granddaughters, but she only whispered, “Ask your mother what she wrapped two babies in, fifty-six years ago.” Behind her voice came a faint, steady ticking. My mother, who had heard every word, covered her mouth and shook her head wildly.

Before I could say another word, headlights swept across the kitchen wall. A car door slammed outside. Then came a slow knock at the front door, three times. “Don’t open it,” my mother pleaded, clutching the blanket. But through the glass panel beside the door, I saw a woman about my age standing on the porch, and her face looked exactly like mine.