The baby’s.
“It’s a girl,” someone said, but I was crying too hard to process it. Macon’s arms were around me, holding me together, and I let myself fall into him, boneless, every part of me still humming from the shock.
They brought her to me—tiny, wriggling, mad as hell. I stared down at her, not believing it, not believing any of it. She had all ten fingers, all ten toes, a mop of brown hair and a scowl that could level a city block.
“Hi,” I whispered, and the baby blinked at me like she was sizing up whether I was worth the trouble.
Macon laughed, tears in his eyes, and kissed the top of my head. “You did it,” he said, and I believed him.
I really did.
They cleaned her up, wrapped her in a blanket, and put her back in my arms. I stared at her, dazed, waiting for the moment when I’d recognize her, when I’d feel like a father. But all I could think was: I hope you never, ever have to feel as invisible as I did.
She opened her eyes, and they were gray—just like mine.
I held her close, and for the first time in my life, felt whole.
Rawley showed up with Jojo and the baby, their little trio crammed into the corner of the room. Hooper brought a stuffed goat, which he insisted was “good luck.” Burke and Jacksonstood sentry at the door, refusing to let anyone—especially my father—inside unless they had a damn good reason.
After a while, the room emptied out, and it was just me and Macon and the baby. He held me, arms wrapped tight, and whispered, “You’re not invisible anymore, Carter.”
And he was right.
I wasn’t.
Not to him. Not to her.
Not ever again.
The hours after the birth slid away like a slow leak, time bleeding out at the corners of the world. I’d always imagined there’d be a moment—a sharp, cinematic second where everything snapped into place, where you looked down at the little person and thought, Okay, I get it now.
But that’s not how it happened.
Instead, I watched the baby in the curve of my arm, stunned and barely breathing, waiting for the joy to show up and make everything make sense.
She looked nothing like I’d imagined.
For one thing, she was small, so small it scared the shit out of me, every inch of her a study in contradiction: the wild spray of brown hair matted damp against her scalp, the impossibly delicate fingers curled in a fist, the gray eyes—my eyes—darting around as if cataloguing the world just in case it got snatched away.
For another, she was loud, louder than any baby I’d ever met, a raw, outraged squall that filled the room and made my eardrums hum.
Macon sat beside me in the battered vinyl armchair, one hand braced at the nape of my neck, the other holding my free hand with a grip so gentle it made my chest ache.
We didn’t say much, at first. The hospital room was a holding pen for everything that was too big for words—love, fear, thefuture. I was too tired to speak and too afraid to sleep, in case the whole thing turned out to be a stress dream or a trick of anesthesia. But every time my eyelids dipped, I’d snap awake and find the baby still there, warm and heavy, realer than anything I’d ever owned.
A nurse came in to check the baby’s vitals. She wore her exhaustion with pride, dark circles under her eyes like old campaign ribbons. “She’s a champ,” the nurse said, and gave us a tired thumbs-up before retreating, shutting the door with a click.
Macon smiled at the baby, then at me. “She’s perfect,” he said, voice so soft I had to lean in to catch it.
“She looks pissed,” I managed, and I wasn’t wrong—the baby’s mouth was twisted into a tiny scowl, her fists flailing whenever the air touched her skin.
“She takes after her daddy,” Macon said. “Both of them.”
A laugh wobbled out of me, thin as a bird bone. “You’re going to spoil her rotten, aren’t you?”
He bent and kissed the top of my head, beard scratching my scalp. “Absolutely.”
We sat there, soaking in the silence, watching the baby cycle between outrage and exhaustion. I tried to imagine what her life would be: would she run wild with the goats and horses, or grow up bookish and cautious like me? Would she inherit Macon’s steadiness, or my habit of setting fires just to see what burned?
