“You should get some rest,” I say. “Take the bedroom. I’ll keep watch out here.”
“I’m fine here.”
“Bonnie—”
“I said I’m fine.” She opens her eyes and looks at me. “Just leave me alone for a bit. Please.”
I want to argue, but she needs space and time to process. I need to let her have it.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll be right here if you need anything.”
She closes her eyes again.
I settle into the chair by the window and watch the desert stretch out under the stars. This should be good. Time alone withBonnie. No Ash hovering. No Titan making crude jokes. Just us and the baby.
But the mood is wrong. The tension is too thick. Fear hangs in the air like smoke.
And all I can think about is what might be happening fifty miles away.
The first daypasses in silence.
Bonnie stays on the couch most of the time. I make her eat crackers and drink water. She picks at the food but doesn’t protest.
I try calling Ash. No signal.
Try again an hour later. Nothing.
The isolation is worse than I expected. Not knowing what’s happening. Not being able to help. I pace the safe house like a caged animal. Check the perimeter three times. Clean the guns even though they’re already clean.
Bonnie watches me from the couch. “You’re making me nervous.”
“Sorry.”
“Sit down. You’re wearing a hole in the floor.”
I sit. But my leg bounces. Can’t help it.
She reaches over and puts her hand on my knee. “They’re fine.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Neither do you. So stop assuming the worst.”
She’s right. But it doesn’t help.
That night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. Listening to Bonnie breathe in the other room. Wondering if Ash and Titan are still alive.
Day two,Bonnie starts throwing up.
I wake to the sound of retching from the bathroom. Rush in to find her on her knees in front of the toilet, pale and shaking.
“I’m fine,” she says before I can ask.
“You’re not fine.”
“It’s just morning sickness.”
“At two in the afternoon?”
