Squatting, pinching off green worms, Ava lifted the last cabbage leaf. An infant face stared up, its head resting under the lip of the plant, legs trailing away into weeds. Dead, she thought, not breathing, but then the eyes closed, the child's mouth cupped, it's small hand waved, hitting the leaves.

A strange joke, Ava thought, this child under a cabbage leaf. But she knew no one who would do such a thing, no woman with a child, or friend who carried one. Ava lived alone. She honored loneliness, did not coo over babies, or woo stray and single men. She pushed awkwardly to her feet.

The baby grew smaller, less threatening, looking down on it that way. It fit easily in the untidy row of plants. It wore a sand colored shirt and smudged cloth diaper. Ava marveled at how round its feet were, so unfit for walking.

Ava looked up into the surrounding trees, searching for a bird that might sing, but saw only slits of sky among the branches. She took three careful steps along the row and turned. The child's eyes followed her. Its fist now rested in its mouth.

Don't look at me, Ava thought. I didn't bring you here. Stepping back, bending quickly, she picked up the can of kerosene that held the floating worms. Carrying it in her delicate hands, Ava made her way back to the grey house that stood, like a harsh rock in a barren field.

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