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They call her thing and anomaly, but that’s his baby.
Perhaps if they had been where Adam sat, staring down at that cold unmoving bundle in Evie’s arms, they would understand—he had wanted his little girl back, too afraid to hide Sarah away in the confines of some wooden coffin.
He asks to bring her home. The poll—the vote, clinical, resounding—refuses.
(And when Adam looks at his children he only sees all his mistakes staring him back.)
To stay here would mar him—mar this whole family—further. He quits, dreams dead in his hands.