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I write Carson North.

Then it asks for the father's address, and I have to look it up on my phone.

I write the box number and the town and the Wyoming zip. My own handwriting, his life, on a form that belongs to our children. I look at it too long. Then I hand it over the counter.

In the exam room, Graham is six pounds, eleven ounces. Hildie is six pounds, five ounces. The doctor pushes her glasses up on their cord and tells me both babies are on the chart now, the real one, the one every other baby in the country uses.

"They're doing beautifully. You can fly after October first. I was going to say you can start driving, too, but it looks like you've already graduated to that."

"I honestly haven't been, but my mom is working today, and my chariot was in the shop." My feeble attempt at a joke goes over like a lead balloon.

"Will Dad be flying back home with you?"

"He's working."

"Oh, right. He's a rancher. This time of year, I imagine so."

I carry them back out into the parking lot, one carrier in each hand, and I stand there. The keys are in my pocket. I know exactly where they are, but I stand there anyway.

After our final feeding of the night, I look at my phone. He still hasn't called me back or responded to my text about going to the pediatrician all by myself like a big girl. I decide not to text him again and go to bed.

The next morning, I realize that whether or not we talk, the agreement always was I'd keep him up to date with their health, so I text him the numbers.

Graham 6-11, Hildie 6-5. Both on the real chart now. Doctor cleared us to fly after Oct 1.

I set the phone down and feed and pump and wash the parts and lay them on the towel. Every time I pass the counter, my eyes betray me and look at the phone to see if he's written back.

At eleven forty, it lights the ceiling.

That's my girl and my boy. Proud of all three of you.

Then he sends a heart emoji.

I read it twice. It sounds exactly like him, and there is nothing in it I could complain about to a single living person. It's warm, and it's short. Tomorrow is Thursday, and it will be ten days since he left. There hasn't been a single word about travel itineraries.

I don't hear a word from him.

Friday, I text him in the morning about Graham smiling when he tooted. I got a kick out of it and had to share it. I text him again at four about flights for the first week of October. He answers once, around midnight.

Book whatever's easiest on you. I'll cover it. Miss you.

At three in the morning Hildie wakes with that thin wind-up cry, and before I have her latched Graham joins her from the other bassinet. I try Hildie, then Graham, then both of them across my lap like a set of grocery bags. I try the white noise machine and the bounce and the walk from the window to the closet and back. None of it works.

Down the hall, Mom is asleep after five straight days at Sabal Point, so I don't wake her.

At twenty past four, they're both down. I stand over the bassinets until I'm sure, and then I tiptoe away. I go into the bathroom and shut the door and slide down against the cold side of the tub.

In a moment of weakness, I call him. It rings and rings, and then his voicemail picks up in that flat, recorded stranger's version of his voice.

I hang up.

I sit there with the phone in both hands. The tile is cold through my leggings. Somewhere a pipe groans. I tell myself I'm not counting, and I count the morning text and the four o'clock text and the one answer a night anyway. Eleven minutes go by before I can make my knees work.

Saturday morning Mom pours two cups and pushes one at me across the counter.

"Are you two all right?"

I open my mouth to say yes. It's automatic. The yes lives right behind my lips. But I stop myself because I'm pretty sure if I say anything at all, I'll lose it.