Page 249 of Mile High Ruin

Vadim leans close. “Listen to them.”

I look at him, horrified. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am.”

“They’re saying they’ll take him.”

“They’re saying they’ll help him.”

My throat closes. “What if they take him and I don’t see him?”

“You will see him.”

“You don’t know that.”

His face changes, but he doesn’t look away. “No,” he says quietly. “I don’t know that. But I know they are ready, and I know you have to get him here first.”

The plainness of it helps more than comfort would have. I nod because I have no other choice.

Then comes the part that is mostly pain. There’s nothing graceful about it, nothing beautiful in the way people like to describe birth after the worst of it is over. It’s pain and pressure and panic and voices telling me what to do while I’m convinced my body can’t possibly survive doing it.

Vadim stays beside me through all of it.

He lets me crush his hand.

He wipes my face with a cloth when sweat runs down my temples.

He bends close enough that I can hear him even when I stop hearing anyone else.

“You can do this,” he says.

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I’m scared.”

“I know.”

“I’m so scared.”

“I’m here.”

That’s the only thing he keeps repeating, and for once I don’t ask him to stop.

I remember one final push. I remember pressure so intense I think I might split apart from it. Then release. Then emptiness.

For one terrible second, there’s no cry.

I turn my head toward Vadim. His face changes, and that scares me more than anything the doctors could have said.

“Why isn’t she crying?” I ask.

The baby is taken to the neonatal team waiting nearby, and the room fills with activity that doesn’t include me. Someone tells me they’re helping him breathe. Someone else tells me to stay with them. Vadim’s hand is still around mine, but his eyes are on the corner of the room where our baby is surrounded by doctors.

“Vadim.”

He looks at me immediately.