Page 228 of Say My Name

He sits on the edge of the bed, and I turn toward him as much as my stomach allows.

“I need you with me,” I say.

“I am with you.”

“You're arranging transportation for a military evacuation.”

“The route matters.”

“I know it does.” I put his hand over my stomach. “But I don't need you to make every part of this go perfectly. I need you present. That's all.”

His jaw shifts.

“You don't have to know what happens next,” I tell him. “Neither of us does.”

“I don't like that.”

“I know.”

He looks down at where our fingers are laced together. “What if you need something and I miss it?”

“I'll tell you.”

“And if you can't?”

“You know me. Pay attention.”

His eyes lift to mine.

“That, I can do.”

“I know you can.”

The baby moves beneath his palm, and some of the rigidity leaves his shoulders.

“Present,” he says.

“Not perfect.”

“I'm making no promises about the bag.”

Despite the pain waiting somewhere inside me, I laugh.

By the time we reach the hospital, my contractions are five minutes apart and Dominic can recite every detail of the trip.

The car arrived in six minutes. We took the route along Grand because the overnight closure on Michigan began early. We parked on level three, entered through the east doors, and spoke to a security guard named Thomas before a nurse named Marissa met us at registration.

He says each name once under his breath.

“You know there won't be a quiz later, right?” I ask.

“There could be questions.”

“About the security guard?”

“He gave us directions.”

Another contraction begins before I can answer.