“You’re doing a bang-up job, then.”
I glance toward the living room, where Ben is already curled up on the couch, cradling a picture book about space whales.
“I just wanted to read him a story.”
She crosses her arms. “One story.”
“One story,” I agree.
The book is ridiculous.
The space whales have monocles and speak in rhyme. One of them teaches math with fruit metaphors. But Ben’s laugh—sharp and sudden—makes it worth every idiotic page.
I close the book and glance up to see Kairo standing in the hallway, arms crossed but eyes soft.
“He loves you,” she says quietly.
I look at her.
“No, not like that,” she corrects. “I mean, he *likes* you. Trusts you. That doesn’t happen easily with him.”
I set the book down, heart thudding too loud in my ears.
“You think I’m not capable of being a father,” I say.
She doesn’t answer.
So I keep going.
“Let me prove you wrong.”
There’s silence. Then, just as quiet, she says:
“Remember that you have one week.”
And walks away.
CHAPTER 9
KAIRO
The clinic smells like disinfectant and lemon polish, like someone’s trying to scrub away reality with artificial cheer.
Ben’s swinging his legs from the paper-covered exam table, humming some nonsense song under his breath while I fill out the digital form on the wall panel. I’ve done this routine a dozen times—check-ups every six months, just like the pediatric holosuggests—but today, my hands feel clammy.
I tap through the standard questions—no, no allergies, yes, he eats leafy greens if bribed with dessert. I get to the genetics section and pause.
Species: Human.
Parentage: Maternal confirmed.
Paternal—
I leave it blank.
The nurse enters, smiling like she’s trying out for a role in a med-drama.
“He’s a handsome little guy,” she says, scanning Ben’s vitals. “Love the eyes. Blue like that? Grolgath lineage, maybe?”
