Burke twisted around, eyes glittering with adrenaline. “You need anything? Water? Beef jerky?”
“Unless you have an epidural in the glove box, I’m good,” I spat, half-choked on another wave of pain.
Burke whistled. “That’s a no on the jerky.”
Jackson, who’d been dead silent until then, said, “Hospital’s ten minutes out. I called ahead. They’re ready for us.”
Macon nodded, shifting so my head rested on his chest. “You hear that? You’re going to be fine. I’m not letting go of you. Not for anything.”
The next contraction hit, and I saw stars. I curled into his chest, fingers digging at the collar of his shirt. “It hurts,” I said, voice small and shaking. “It really fucking hurts.”
He held me tighter, one hand massaging the base of my skull. “You’re doing great. Just hang on a little longer.”
For a while, the world shrank to the cab of the Humvee. Sweat. Shaking. Macon’s breath in my hair. The pulse in his throat.
I rode out the pain, alternating between blank terror and flashes of memory: the way Macon had looked at me the night we finished the nursery, the taste of river water on my lips, the way Jojo’s baby had fit in the crook of my arm that one perfect night. The idea that I could have that, too, was what kept me from blacking out.
We shot through town like a guided missile, the Humvee drawing every eye on Main Street. Hooper jumped the curb and took the ER entrance at speed. He yanked the handbrake and the whole vehicle shuddered to a stop, the seatbelt bruising my shoulder.
Macon was out the door first, scooping me into his arms again. I clung to his neck, teeth gritted, vision tunneling.
Inside, it was a blur: nurses shouting, someone with a wheelchair, Macon barking instructions like he’d taken over the triage team. I was wheeled down a corridor, lights whizzing overhead, the smell of disinfectant burning my nose.
They got me into a room, stripped me down, and started poking at my arms. I barely noticed, because the contractions were on top of each other now, and every one left me shivering.
A doctor appeared. She had dark hair, kind eyes, and a voice that cut through the panic. “Hi, Carter. I’m Dr. Kaye. Looks like your baby is in a hurry.”
“No shit,” I groaned.
She smiled, professional and calming. “We’re going to help you, okay? But you need to breathe.”
I nodded, or tried to.
Macon was right there, never letting go of my hand. “I’m here,” he kept saying, even when I screamed, even when I sobbed. “I’m not leaving. You got this.”
There was a flurry of movement, a blur of faces. Nurses. Monitors. The world snapped into this weird, slow-motion clarity. I heard everything: the beep of the machines, the squeak of the nurse’s shoes, the ragged edge in Macon’s voice as he whispered, “I love you,” into my ear.
At some point, someone tried to usher him out. “Sir, you need to wait outside—”
“No.” Macon’s voice was flat, absolute. “He needs me.”
That was enough. They didn’t argue again.
I lost track of time. Minutes. Hours. The pain blurred together until it was all I was, all I’d ever been. I screamed, cussed, begged, pleaded, and through it all Macon held my hand, wiped the sweat from my brow, and whispered things I couldn’t remember but would never forget.
“You’re almost there,” the doctor said, glancing at the monitor. “Just one more push, Carter. You can do this.”
I wanted to quit. I wanted to float away and never come back.
But then Macon leaned in, lips at my ear, voice so full of hope it hurt worse than anything. “Come back to me, Carter. I need you. The baby needs you.”
I gritted my teeth, clawed at his arm, and gave it everything I had.
There was a white-out moment, a split-second where the whole world paused.
Then, the cry.
Not mine. Not Macon’s.
