"It means she was exposed to more peanuts than we would typically see in an accidental contamination."
Fuck. I bury the pain and anger of that deep down. Right now isn’t the time. I'll deal with that later.
"Is she okay?" I ask.
The doctor holds my gaze. "Her airway has stabilized."
I don't move or breathe. "Doctor." I practically growl at her.
Her expression softens further. "Your wife is going to be fine."
The corridor disappears, along with the panic, the fear, and the pressure that’s been crushing my chest for the last forty minutes.
All of it is gone.
I close my eyes, just for a second. Then I drag a hand down my face. "Can I see her?"
"In a few minutes," she says.
I nod, that's fine. A few minutes is nothing, not compared to the last forty.
The doctor glances down at her chart and then back at me. "Mr. Mariano."
Something in her tone makes me tense up. "Yes?"
"Did your wife know she was pregnant?"
The question doesn't make sense. I stare at her, confused. "What?"
The doctor looks surprised. "She didn't know?"
The corridor goes silent. Beside me, I feel my father go still.
The doctor glances between us. "Approximately eight weeks," she says carefully.
Eight weeks.
For a second I genuinely think I've misheard her.
Pregnant.
Quinn is pregnant. My wife is pregnant.
The world seems to tilt slightly as the last hour replays in my head.
Her struggling to breathe, her lips turning blue, the EpiPen not working. The ambulance, the hospital, the fear, and the absolute fucking terror.
Not just Quinn, but our baby.
I nearly lost both of them.
"Mr. Mariano?"
I realize the doctor is still talking. I drag a hand over my face once more. "She's pregnant?"
The doctor nods. "Yes."
My father puts a hand on my shoulder, and for the first time since the ambulance doors closed, my knees feel weak because Quinn is alive. And somehow... So is our child.
