The morning of the appointment, I wake before dawn with nerves churning in my stomach.
Ten weeks pregnant. Still early enough that anything could go wrong. Still fragile enough that I'm terrified of what the ultrasound might show.
Or not show.
I've been so focused on external threats—the Covenant, Ashcroft, Council politics—that I haven't let myself fully acknowledge the vulnerability of early pregnancy. The statistics about miscarriage in the first trimester. The ways bodies can fail even when you want something desperately.
My hand presses to my still-flat stomach. "Please be okay in there. Please."
Asher is still asleep when I slip out for a shower. The hot water helps calm my nerves marginally, but I'm still jittery as I dress in comfortable clothes suitable for an ultrasound—loos
