About a week after their baby died, Harris began to suckle at his wife's breast.

'I'm stealing my dead son's food,' he thought as the warm milk flooded into his mouth.

'This is wrong,' he thought, shuddering, swallowing, tenderly touching the spot just below Mary's left nipple with the tip of his tongue, then taking her breast into his mouth again. Sucking oh-so-gently. Receiving another gift of warm gush.

He closed his eyes, swallowed, thought the words again.

This is wrong.

But they were just words. Foolish, ignorant, daylight words. How could this be wrong?

Mary's hands were in his hair, stroking, wet with tears. Gently, she lifted his head, guided his mouth to her other breast.

'That's right,' she said. 'Take it. Yes... there... just there...'

Milk poured into his mouth, almost more than he could take.

He pulled away for a moment, swallowed, tried to speak.

'Mary?' he said, a milk-bubble popping on his lips, soft but audible.

She raised a finger to her lips. Her eyes glittered in the early-morning light.

'Hush,' she said. 'Hush.'