That night, after Eli was asleep, she threw the coat in the wash, the way she did with everything new-to-them before it touched her son’s skin. It was on the spin cycle when she heard it — a dull, uneven thud against the drum. Not fabric. Not a button.
Something hard.
She pulled the coat out, still damp, and ran her hands along the lining until she found it: a lump near the hem, stitched in with small, careful, deliberate hand-stitching. Not factory work. Someone had sewn this in on purpose, years ago, and never come back for it.
“It’s nothing,” she told herself, setting the coat down. “Old padding. Interfacing.”
She picked it back up four minutes later.
