Page 217 of Wrong Number Right Doctor

As we leave the hospital, Alester says, almost casually, “Maybe it would be better if you came to stay with me for a while.”

He says it like it’s practical. Like he’s suggesting a change in appointment timing or a different clinic route.

I look at him. Because no answer I have would help.

Because if I say no, he’ll hear defiance. If I say yes, I’ll hear surrender. So I say nothing and let the silence do whatever it’s going to do.

He doesn’t push. He never wastes force when pressure will do.

The car ride begins in silence.

It’s late enough now that the hospital lot has thinned out. The overhead lights throw long pale pools across the asphalt, and the whole world feels overlit and too quiet after the noise of the emergency department. I settle into the passenger seat carefully, one hand low against my abdomen, trying not to think about the way my body still feels unsettled, as if it’s waiting for permission to panic again.

We pull out slowly. Only after we’ve turned past the far row of cars do I see him.

Dalton.

He’s standing near the edge of the parking lot, partly in shadow, hands in his coat pockets, face turned toward the exit lane.

For a second I stop breathing.

Was he waiting? He must have been. Hours later, and he’s still here.

Alester doesn’t notice him. Or if he does, he gives no sign. He keeps his eyes on the road, both hands steady on the wheel, posture exact.

I twist slightly in my seat to keep Dalton in view for as long as I can. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t wave. Doesn’t try to stop us. He just stands there and watches the car pass, and something in my chest twists harder than the pain did in class.

Then he’s gone behind us.

I face forward again before Alester can catch it in the mirror. For a while, there’s only the hum of the engine and the muted rush of tires over the road.

Then, unexpectedly, Alester says, “How is the child?”

I turn my head.

It’s the first time he has asked like that. Not about the agreement. Not about the pregnancy in abstract terms. Not about scheduling or symptoms or whether the doctor said anything useful. The child.

For one strange second, I almost see something human in him. Something worried, or trying to be.

“They said the heart rate was fine,” I answer. “The baby is okay.”

He nods once. His grip on the wheel loosens, just slightly. “That’s good.”

The words are simple. So simple that they catch me off guard.

He keeps looking ahead. “Why were you stressed?”

I don’t answer.

I can’t even begin to explain that question without putting Dalton in the middle of the road between us, and I’m already in this car for him. I’m already making choices I don’t want to make because every path out seems to cut him first.

Alester glances at me once, then back to the road. He understands anyway. I see it happen. His mouth hardens. He doesn’t say Dalton’s name. I don’t say it either.

We keep driving.

Then, all at once, something changes. It’s small at first. A shift in the car’s line. A strange, delayed correction at the wheel. Alester’s shoulders lose their held tension in a way that doesn’t look like relaxation, only absence.

I turn toward him. “Alester?”