The phone rang just after midnight. Sleep hadn’t come. I sat on the bed with the medical file open across my lap, the pages soft from too much handling. The words inside blurred from repetition: twin gestation, term discrepancy, discharge note. Every time I looked at them, my stomach wound tighter.
Noah couldn’t stay still. He walked the same strip of carpet back and forth, hands in his hair until it stuck up in wild spikes. The room felt ready to crack.
Then his phone buzzed.
We both jumped up.
The screen lit his face in harsh lines. He looked at me, then back at the name. “Thomas.” His thumb hovered, like he wanted to refuse the call then he answered. “Bennett.”
Static filled the silence before a man’s voice came through, rough, low. “You asked about her. Vivienne.”
Her name hit me
