Chapter Nine
Hopper
I’ve never told anyone this.
Not my brothers. Not even Malerick, and he’s the only one I still bother talking to. My mother knew I adopted Maddie, but I never told her the details. Never told her how it happened, or why I was the one who walked out of that hospital with a newborn instead of Cynthia.
Maddie was only a week old when it happened.
And the truth?
I have trouble remembering that day.
Not because I don’t want to—though God knows I don’t—but because there are parts of it my brain has locked away. Tucked into the darkest corners, buried deep under all the things I’d rather not deal with.
But sometimes, on nights like this, when the house is too quiet and the fire burns low, I remember anyway.
Daniel was my best friend. Like a brother. I liked him a lot more than any of my brothers, for that matter.
We met in undergrad. He was my roommate. We both had the same goals and ended up starting a clinic together in San Diego. I handled the big animals—horses, cattle, livestock—while he treated the small ones. It was a good balance. A good partnership. We had a great thing going.
Until we hired Tanya.
She was a force of nature. Daniel fell in love. Soon after, she started volunteering overseas, offering veterinary care to communities that didn’t have access to it. Then she introduced me to Cynthia.
Beautiful, smart, available Cynthia.
At first, it was easy. We had fun. She was charming in a way that made you believe she knew exactly what she wanted, and for a while our relationship worked. But she wanted marriage, kids, something that felt permanent. I liked her, but I didn’t love her enough to say yes to all that.
And when I told her that, she didn’t take it well. We broke up. I thought that was the end of it.
Then, a year later, Daniel and Tanya called me.
They were in Colombia, finishing up a project before Tanya had the baby. They needed someone to come and cover the clinic while they went back to San Diego. It wasn’t a big deal—just a couple of months, making sure things ran smoothly. Daniel would hire someone to cover the clinic.
By the time I arrived, Cynthia was already there.
She was different and pregnant, just like Tanya. She didn’t want to talk about it, and I didn’t ask. She wasn’t supposed to stay long—there were complications with her pregnancy, and she needed to get back to the States.
That night, she was rushed to the hospital.
And Maddie was born.
Too soon.
Too small.
She was placed in the ICU, a tangle of wires and beeping machines, barely bigger than my hands. The next day though, Cynthia was discharged.
We were supposed to go back to the house where she had been staying with Daniel and Tanya so she could grab a few things before flying home. Daniel and Tanya decided to come along. Pack their things so they could leave. There was friction between them but I didn’t ask. Again, I just wanted to get the job done and hope that my stay wouldn’t be longer than two months.
That was the plan—until the accident.
The roads outside Bogotá are unpredictable. One minute, they’re smooth pavement, the next, they’re a death trap of loose gravel and sharp turns.
It happened fast.
One second, Daniel was driving. Tanya was in the passenger seat, her hands folded over her stomach. Cynthia was beside me in the back, too tired to do anything but lean her head against the window.
