Chapter Eight
~ Macon ~
The air in the shop was clean and tight as a rifle bore. I’d spent most of the morning hunched over the cradle, teasing out the last bit of splinter from the edge with a fine rasp.
The project had become a kind of obsession—a place to dump the leftover aggression from a lifetime of waiting for other people to make the next move. Here, there was no waiting. Just wood, and steel, and the absolute certainty of right angles.
I ran my thumb along the inside rail, checking for any burrs. Nothing but glass. I exhaled slow. There’s a peace in making something that can’t break you back.
Then, from somewhere outside, the world detonated. The first scream was so sudden and raw it cut through every barrier: shop walls, double-paned glass, the tinnitus that never left me since Aleppo.
It was Jojo, and it wasn’t a noise he’d ever made before—louder, more animal, the kind that twists your gut and short-circuits every part of you not built for pain.
I dropped the rasp, didn’t even register the sound of it hitting the floor. My boots found purchase without asking my brain, and I was out the door at a dead sprint, wood shavings and fine sawdust haloing around me like a detonated tripwire.
The distance to the house was maybe forty yards. I cleared it in twelve seconds. At the door I slammed my shoulder into the jamb, half busting the ancient latch, and ran for the kitchen on pure autopilot.
It was chaos. Real chaos, not the kind you see on TV. Jojo was doubled over against the island, both hands white-knuckled on the countertop, his face so pale the freckles looked painted on.
Rawley stood behind him, one arm banded around his mate’s chest, the other bracing the side of Jojo’s neck like he couldanchor him to the world with sheer will. But it was Rawley’s eyes that froze me—he looked more terrified than the time a convoy exploded five feet from our vehicle.
And Carter—barefoot, wild-haired, phone clamped to his ear—was already talking at triple speed, “—don’t know if it’s too early, the contractions started five minutes ago, he’s screaming. Is that normal? What do I do—” and the answering end must have been the Black Butte nurse line because Carter kept repeating yes, yes, six months, and Jojo’s name like it was the only thing keeping him on earth.
I catalogued everything in under a second: blood on Jojo’s thigh, none on the tile; his knees bent, but not buckling; breathing fast but not gasping, hands shaking but not clawing.
Assess. Triage. Execute.
“He’s in active labor,” I said, voice steady as a shot of morphine. “How close are the contractions?”
Carter looked up, eyes wide and weirdly clear. “Two minutes. Maybe less. He says it’s like a knife in his back—”
“Get towels and the hospital bag,” I said, and Carter was already moving. “Rawley,” I barked, using the old command voice. “Get Jojo to the car. Now. We need to move.”
For a second, Rawley didn’t move, just held his mate tighter. Then Jojo bucked against the grip and Rawley snapped back into action, hauling him upright with a force that would have crushed anyone smaller. Jojo screamed again, the kind of scream that scrapes the soul on the way out.
My hands hovered at the edge of touching, waiting for Jojo to collapse or for Rawley to falter. Neither did. They moved as a unit, shuffling to the mudroom, every third step punctuated by another guttural sound.
I followed close behind, field of vision shrinking to only what was necessary. Flashback: a Navy tent in Kandahar, blood everywhere, someone screaming for a medic—except it wasn’tblood here, it was amniotic fluid, and instead of a war zone it was my best friend’s kitchen in rural Montana.
The next contraction hit as Jojo tried to step down from the porch. He buckled, knees giving, and would have face-planted if I hadn’t caught his upper arm in time.
The muscle felt like a steel cable. He was shaking all over, sweat pouring down his hairline even though the outside air was barely fifty degrees.
“Rawley, you drive,” I said. “We’ll follow.”
Rawley opened the truck’s passenger door, then hesitated, trying to get Jojo inside without folding him like a piece of luggage. I did the math and made the call: “Pick him up. Bridal carry. Careful of his hips.”
Rawley didn’t hesitate, just lifted Jojo like he weighed nothing. The moment Jojo was on the seat, another contraction seized him, and he screamed again, eyes squeezed shut, fists full of the seatbelt and his own hoodie.
I ran back into the house. Carter was already at the door, cradling the “go bag”—a beat-up messenger with formula, blankets, change of clothes, and every document Jojo had ever signed for the baby. He moved fast, feet light on the old pine, but his hand kept drifting to his own belly, as if the adrenaline in the air might jump species.
Rawley eyes were laser-focused. “You’ll follow?”
“On your six,” I said. “Go.”
The moment the door closed behind him and Jojo, I let myself breathe. Then I went for the keys, grabbed the first jacket in reach, and jogged to the shop truck, Carter racing behind me.
The engine was still warm. I slammed it into reverse and fishtailed out of the driveway, tailing Rawley’s rig as it barreled down the dirt road like a missile.
