ANNY
Ten weeks after the warehouse search, Oliver and I watch our baby turn away from the ultrasound camera.
“Already refusing surveillance,” I say.
The doctor laughs and moves the transducer across my stomach. “Strong heartbeat. Growth is exactly where it should be for thirty-four weeks.”
Relief loosens something inside me. Oliver squeezes my hand without looking away.
The doctor glances at us. “Have you decided whether you want to know the s*x?”
We refused at the previous appointment, afraid that every detail gave fate more to take.
Today, I am tired of asking fear for permission.
“Yes,” I answer.
“You’re having a girl.”
Oliver exhales as if he has been holding his breath for five months.
“Our daughter,” he says.
Two hours later, she kicks hard enough to move the security rep
