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Neither of us says a word.

Outside, the mountains rise with the road curling through them. Carson takes the curves with one wrist draped over the wheel and barely touches the brake. He told me in Florida he spends four months a year digging his truck out of snow, so I'm not sure if I should read his nonchalance as competence driving through the mountains or certain death.

My phone buzzes in my lap. It's a text from Trina.

Non-emergency, but I put a report on your desk to review when you get back. Good luck at the dentist!

I'm on the highway to Asheville with a virtual stranger who also happens to be the father of my unborn child, and Trina is wishing my molars well. I put the phone on my thigh and dig through my purse for my insurance card.

I flip my wallet open, and his check is right there behind the card slot. He wrote out five hundred in handwriting that looks like he just learned cursive yesterday. It's still uncashed, and it's gone soft at the fold from riding around in my wallet since I opened it.

I pull it halfway out and look at him. He's watching the road with his hat pulled low. I slide the check back down into the wallet and tug my insurance card free.

"How long are you here?"

"Fly out tomorrow at one."

"That's a long way and a quick trip to come for an ultrasound."

"First of the heifers started calving before I left, so I need to get back.”

I turn toward him. "And you came anyway?"

"Wade's got them."

"Wade of the nine words a day?"

"On a talkative day."

I laugh, and the knot under my ribs lets go a notch. He doesn't grin, but the corner of his mouth pulls.

"Where are you staying?"

"Hampton Inn on Tunnel Road."

"Not Holly Ridge?"

"I didn't realize how far away from Asheville you lived. You said Asheville for the doctor, so I found a hotel in Asheville."

He booked a hotel thirty minutes from my house and didn't say one word about it until he showed up in front of my house, sitting in the cold for God knows how long.

I slide the insurance card back into my wallet and look out at the bare trees streaming past. Every answer I've gotten this morning has somehow given me another question, and Carson doesn't seem inclined to help with any of them.

A few minutes later, he signals and turns into the medical building lot. He finds a space near the end, straightens the truck, and cuts the engine, taking the only comfort in this truck, the heater, with it.

The waiting room smells like hand sanitizer and the fake vanilla they plug into the wall. I sign in on a clipboard, and the receptionist taps at her keyboard and frowns at the screen.

"I have you down with no support person."

Behind me, Carson stands with his hat in both hands, turning it slowly by the brim.

"He's support-adjacent."

The receptionist looks past me to him. "Is he coming back with you?"

"He flew in from Wyoming. He might as well see the show."

She smiles and hands me a form, and I fill it out without looking at him.