I manage, through clenched teeth, “If she says ‘relax’ I’m suing the whole district.”
The dispatcher says, “I’m not going to say relax.”
“Great. We’re in love.”
Rhyx’s hand settles at the center of my back, broad and steady. Not trying to control the pain. Just there. Heat through fabric. An anchor my body recognizes before my mind catches up.
“In through the nose,” he says quietly.
I glare at him through the contraction. “I know how air works.”
“Yes,” he says. “Do it anyway.”
I do.
Because the bastard is right.
By the time the pain eases, I’m sweaty, shaking, and offended on a spiritual level.
The dispatcher has already escalated us. “Mobile maternal unit is en route. Estimated arrival seven minutes. Keep patient upright or in any position she finds tolerable. Rhyx, I’m sending the physician live consult to your handheld.”
His slate vibrates on the counter. He picks it up, checks the incoming, and says, “Received.”
Then he looks back at me.
“Can you walk?”
I straighten slowly. My knees feel weirdly hollow. “Offensive question.”
“Selene.”
“Yes,” I say. “I can walk.”
“Good.”
He helps me to the living room without turning it into a rescue scene, which I appreciate more than I currently have language for. One hand at my elbow. The other carrying the medical slate. The house seems suddenly too bright, every surface outlined with impossible clarity—the soft throw folded over the arm of the sofa, the low storage bench under the window, the relay light glowing green by the wall, the child-safe latches on the kitchen cabinets that now feel less hypothetical than they did yesterday.
The next contraction comes while I’m lowering myself onto the sofa.
“Ah, no,” I say to no one and everyone. “No, absolutely not.”
Rhyx kneels in front of me, one hand on my knee, the other holding the live medical feed open. A physician appears in projection above the slate—Pi’Rell, older, severe braid, the kind of face that has seen everything and does not need theatrics from me about it.
“Selene,” she says, “I’m Dr. Vei. The unit is three minutes out.”
“Fantastic,” I say. “Please tell them to arrive with an exorcist.”
“No exorcist required. Rhyx, contraction interval.”
He checks the timer he started without my noticing. “Four minutes and twelve seconds between first and second.”
Of course he started a timer.
Of course.
The doctor gives instructions. Position changes. Hydration. Monitoring for bleeding. Keep her talking if she wants to talk, quiet if she wants quiet. Rhyx follows every word like it’s a flight path through a meteor field.
I, meanwhile, am rapidly developing new opinions about the entire reproductive process.
