Page 118 of Dissonance

“How far apart are they?” the receptionist asks.

“Every two minutes,” Lockie answers for me, not missing a beat. “Lasting close to a minute each time.”

She nods, fingers flying over the keyboard. “Alright, let’s get you checked in.”

There’s a wheelchair suddenly in front of me, and I stare at it, shaking my head. “I can walk.”

“Thea—”

“No, I can walk,” I repeat, sharper this time, because I can. There’s no way I can sit right now anyway.

Another contraction takes over before I’ve finished, my breath catching as I brace against him again. His arm comes around me properly, solid, unmovable, his voice low in my ear, counting the breaths I’m supposed to be taking.

The corridor blurs past in pastel pinks and blues, movement and noise. A midwife keeps asking Lockie questions I half-hear, half-ignore as I’m ushered into triage and straight into the bathroom with a cup and a change of clothes. All dignity has officially left the building as I leave the door open, tears prickling when I can’t get out of my goddamn dress on my own. Lockie’s there in a heartbeat, gently working it over my head and helping me into the hospital gown.

“How many weeks?” the midwife asks when I come back out, running through her checklist.

“Thirty—” I swallow, trying to think. “Thirty-nine.”

“First baby?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Any complications?”

“No.”

Each answer feels like it’s coming from someone else. Lockie doesn’t let go of me once. Not when they help me onto the triage bed, not when they start checking me over, not when another contraction hits me like a goddamn Mack truck and I grip his hand so hard I know it has to hurt.

“You’re doing really well,” the midwife says from the bottom of the bed, her hands doing who knows what as she checks how far along I am. God, I hate that phrase. Doing well. Why do people even need to say it? I’m doing nothing. This is out of my control. “You’re about five centimeters.”

Whatever she says to Lockie after that must be good because his shoulders drop a fraction before he grabs my bag and they move us down the corridor. The delivery room’s bigger, warmer, nothing like triage. Softer lighting, a proper bed in the center, monitors along the wall, a chair in the corner. Still clinical, but it feels different.

“I don’t want to lie down,” I say, shaking my head vehemently. Lying down feels…wrong. Everything in my body is telling me to move.

“That’s okay,” the midwife says. “Whatever feels best for you.”

I start to pace, Lockie staying close in the small space. I can feel the next contraction building now, not the ambush it used to be. Worse in a way, more predictable, no element of surprise, just the knowledge of what’s coming.

“Oh, shit—” I stop mid-step, head dropping.

Lockie’s already there, pressing into the ache like he knows exactly where it hurts, the other at my hip, his body solid against mine.

“Breathe,” he says.

“I am breathing,” I snap.

“Slower. With me.”

His thumb moves in an arc, each sweep in time with the rhythm he’s trying to set, but I can’t quite catch it. I’m speeding ahead, unable to slow down.

“Look at me, sweetheart.”

I lift my head, teeth pressed together so hard my jaw aches, following his voice.

“In.”

I drag in a breath and hold it.