Chapter 89: The 3 AM Summit
The darkness in the master bedroom was absolute, a thick velvet pushed against the windows. It was the kind of sleep that felt earned, a deep, substanceless dive where dreams hadn’t even begun to coalesce.
Then, a sound.
Not a cry. Not a whimper. A soft, experimental coo, like a distant owl.
Amber surfaced through layers of unconsciousness, her brain fumbling to categorize it. The monitor was silent, a dark lump on Kash’s nightstand. This was live sound, coming from down the hall.
She felt Kash tense beside her, his breathing hitched. He was awake too.
Another coo, higher in pitch, blossoming into a string of syllables. “Ba-ba-ba-ba-da-aaaaah.” It was Sidnee. She was awake and apparently ready to discuss it.
A rustle of sheets, a soft thump. A tiny hand, exploring.
Then, a sharp, indignant squeak.
“Mmrph!” Sincere’s protest was muffled, soggy.
Kash groaned, the sound rumbling from the depths of his chest. “She’s patting him. She’s patting his face.”
As if on cue, Sidnee’s gibberish evolved into a cheerful, rhythmic monologue, punctuated by the gentle pat-pat-pat of tiny palms on cotton. Sincere’s squeaks became full-blown, cranky wails, affronted by this unilateral wake-up call.
“Okay. Okay.” Kash flung back the duvet, the cool air hitting their skin. “We’re up.”
They shuffled down the hall, two ghosts in the gloom. The nightlight in the nursery cast a soft, peach glow over the cribs. Inside, a scene of peaceful anarchy. Sidnee was on her back, legs cycling the air, one arm stretched through the slats to casually pat her brother’s cheek. She was holding forth in a language of pure delight, her eyes bright and focused on the mobile spinning above.
Sincere, meanwhile, was red-faced, his mouth a outraged oval, furious at the assault and the auditory invasion.
“Alright, chatterbox, you’ve made your point.” Kash reached in and scooped Sidnee up. She immediately transferred her monologue to him, a stream of “ga-ga-goo-goo” delivered with profound seriousness into his stubbled chin.
Amber lifted Sincere, his body taut with injustice. “Shhh, baby boy. She’s just being a terrible roommate.” She settled into the glider, guiding him to nurse. His frantic suckling was a loud, grumpy noise in the room.
For a few minutes, it was just the sounds of feeding and Sidnee’s ongoing press conference. Kash swayed by the window, trying to shush her. “It’s night-night time, little miss. The world is asleep.”
Sidnee’s response was to grab his lower lip and pull, babbling insistently.
“I don’t speak conspiracy theory,” Kash mumbled, his words distorted. He extricated his lip. “You need to log off. Reboot.”
She laughed, a gurgling, spit-bubbly sound.
Sincere finished, his anger subsiding into drowsy contentment. Amber burped him, a small, satisfied puff against her shoulder. She stood to place him back in the crib, but the moment his back touched the mattress, his eyes flew open. He stared at the ceiling, then slowly turned his head towards his sister’s empty crib. He let out a tentative, questioning coo.
From Kash’s arms, Sidnee fired back a rapid volley of syllables.
A conversation had begun.
“Oh, no,” Amber whispered, sinking back into the glider. “They’re talking to each other.”
Kash slumped onto the nursing stool, Sidnee now standing on his thighs, bouncing. “It’s a parliament. They’re forming a union. They’re negotiating for better milk terms.”
For forty-five minutes, they tried everything. Rocking. Walking. Quiet shushing. The soft drone of the bathroom fan. Sidnee was an unmovable force of alertness. Sincere, once roused, was a wide-eyed spectator, kicking his legs in sympathy with his sister’s enthusiastic sounds.
Amber’s head lolled against the back of the glider. Her eyes felt grated. “This is a special kind of torture. They’re not even unhappy. They’re just… conducting a seminar.”
Kash, his hair standing in sleep-ravaged tufts, looked at Sidnee’s bright, unwavering gaze. “She has your focus. It’s terrifying.”
“At three-seventeen in the morning, it’s a war crime.”
Exhaustion was a weight in their bones. The clock’s numbers glowed, a taunting countdown until the real day would begin. Kash finally heaved himself up, Sidnee still babbling in his arms. “Move over.”
Amber shifted in the wide glider. He sat down, the chair creaking under their combined weight. He settled Sidnee on one knee, then reached into the crib and lifted a watchful Sincere onto the other. He leaned back, a twin anchored against each side of his chest.
“Fine,” he said to the room, his voice gravelly with fatigue. “You want to talk? Talk. Daddy’s listening. Debate the merits of sleep. I’m here for it.”
As if challenged, Sidnee launched into a new, even more complex soliloquy, her hands waving. Sincere watched her, mesmerized, then added his own commentary: a series of soft “ah-ah-ah” sounds, like he was agreeing with her points.
Amber let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob. She slid off the stool and onto the floor, leaning her back and head against Kash’s shins, between his feet. The carpet was soft against her cheek. She closed her eyes, not to sleep, but to just be inside the weird, sleepless bubble.
The darkness outside the windows began to soften, not into light, but into a deeper shade of blue. The birds, those traitors, began their first tentative songs.
Kash’s hand, large and warm, came to rest on her head, his fingers absently combing through her twists. He was still holding court, murmuring nonsense back to the babies. “Is that so? A bold policy stance on the frequency of diaper changes. And what does the senator from the southeast crib think?”
Sincere kicked a foot.
“He seconds the motion. Noted.”
Amber smiled against his leg. The absurdity of it was a blanket. They were a pile of humans, defeated and recalibrated, on the floor of a room that smelled of baby lotion and desperation.
Sidnee’s monologue began to slow. The enthusiastic ba-ba-bas became longer, slurred with yawns. Her blinking became prolonged, heavy. On the other knee, Sincere had long since quieted, his head a heavy weight against Kash’s chest, his breath evening out.
The first true slit of dawn, the color of a pale pearl, appeared above the rooftops. It etched the outlines of the ferns, the mobile, Kash’s patient profile.
Sidnee’s last sound was a soft, sighing “mmm,” as her eyes, finally, fluttered shut. Her fist unclenched against Kash’s shirt.
Silence.
Not just an absence of noise, but a deep, resonant quiet that filled the space the babies’ voices had vacated. It was profound. Holy.
Kash didn’t move. Amber didn’t lift her head. They remained frozen, a sculpture of exhausted triumph, afraid to break the spell.
Minutes passed. The pearl-gray light warmed to a faint rose.
“Are they…” Amber whispered, the sound barely stirring the air.
“Don’t,” Kash breathed back. “Don’t jinx it.”
But they were. Both of them. Deeply, fully, gone.
Slowly, so slowly, Kash levered himself forward. With the practiced care of a bomb disposal expert, he stood, a baby in each arm. He took one step, then another, toward the crib. He bent, a monumental effort, and laid Sincere down. The baby sighed, curling into his favorite position. Sidnee followed, her limbs falling into sudden, boneless sleep.
Kash stood over them for a full minute, a sentinel. Then he turned, his movements stiff. He offered a hand to Amber, still on the floor.
She took it, letting him pull her up. Every muscle protested. They crept from the room like thieves, pulling the door closed until only a crack remained.
In the hallway, in the flat, mundane light of morning, they looked at each other. Dark circles pooled under their eyes. Kash’s t-shirt was smeared with drool. Amber’s hair was a wild cloud.
He reached out and wiped a crust of sleep from the corner of her eye. “We survived the midnight senate hearing.”
A giggle bubbled up in Amber’s throat, fueled by hysteria and lack of sleep. She clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle it, her shoulders shaking.
Kash’s face cracked into a tired grin. He pulled her into him, their bodies aligning in weary solidarity. They stood there, clinging to each other, shaking with silent laughter in the brightening hall.
From their bedroom, Kash’s tablet chimed with the first email of the day. From the kitchen, the smart coffeemaker whirred to life on its scheduled program.
The world was starting without them.
Amber pulled back, wiping her eyes. “I have a nine AM with the granite guy for the manor kitchen.”
Kash ran a hand over his face. “I have a seven-thirty call with Singapore. In twenty minutes.”
They looked toward the nursery door, then at each other. A pact passed between them, wordless.
“Screw it,” Kash said.
“Screw it,” Amber echoed.
Hand in hand, they walked back into their dark bedroom. They fell onto the unmade bed, still in their clothes, and were asleep before the coffeemaker finished its brew.
The sleep was a shallow, fitful lake they barely drowned in before a sharp, digital chirping dragged them back. Kash’s phone vibrated itself off the nightstand, clattering onto the floor. The screen flashed with a Singapore number.
“Time?” Amber croaked, her face buried in a pillow.
Kash fumbled for the device, squinting. “Seven thirty-four.” He swiped the call to voicemail, silencing it. “I just stood up the entire Asia-Pacific dev team.”
“Tell them you were in a hostage situation,” she muttered. “Technically true.”
They lay there, listening. No baby cries. Just the hum of the house. It was a temporary, porous peace. Her body felt like a lead weight, every muscle begging for a surrender the day wouldn’t allow. The granite guy for the manor kitchen was in ninety minutes. She could already feel the ghost of a headache pulsing behind her eyes.
“I’m going to cancel,” she said to the ceiling. “The kitchen can have laminate. Who cares.”
“You care.” Kash’s voice was rough. He turned, pulling her against him, his nose in her hair. “You’ve had Calacatta Gold samples on your vision board for eight months. Go. I’ll hold the fort.”
“You have a mutiny on your hands in Singapore.”
“They’ll survive. This is more important.” His hand smoothed down her spine. “Your fortress of solitude requires the correct stone. It’s a known fact.”
The joke landed flat, but the intention warmed her. He was offering her an escape, however brief. She inhaled his scent—sleep and warm skin—and clung to it for a second longer. Then she forced herself up, the room tilting slightly. “Coffee. Industrial strength.”
The kitchen was a monument to the predawn hours. Two dirty bottles sat in the sink. The sterilizer’s light glowed green. The discarded burp cloth on the counter bore a faint, milky map of their earlier chaos. Amber filled the kettle, her movements automatic. Outside, the morning was crystalline, mocking in its cheerfulness.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Meisha. Mrs. Henley is here for her Emotional Durability Pedi. She brought her own affirmations printed on index cards. Do I read them to her or just hand them over?
Amber snorted, typing back with one thumb. You read them. With feeling. Charge extra for theatrical delivery. She paused, then added, Everything else okay?
Girl, please. We’re professionals. Janelle just turned a Brazilian wax into a spiritual journey. Go be a mom.
The reply was a lifeline. Her world hadn’t collapsed in her absence. It was thriving, with its own bizarre, beautiful rhythm. She poured boiling water over the coffee grounds, the rich, bitter smell a small promise of coherence.
Kash entered, dressed in soft sweats, Sincere cradled against his shoulder. The baby was blinking slowly, a tiny fist curled near his mouth. “He’s just… observing. Taking notes on our incompetence.”
“He’s plotting.” Amber handed Kash a steaming mug. “I can see it in his eyes.”
She showered quickly, the water failing to scour the deep fatigue from her bones. She dressed in a simple but sharp black jumpsuit, the fabric forgiving and elegant. At her vanity, she took her time. Moisturizer, a light dusting of powder, a swipe of burgundy stain across her lips. It was armor. She looked at her reflection, at the woman in the expensive jumpsuit with the sharp coral nails. For a moment, the image held. Then Sincere’s soft, fussing cry filtered through the baby monitor, and the mom-version of her brain, the one constantly running a low-grade diagnostic, kicked in. Gas. He needs the bicycle legs.
She finished her makeup. The armor settled.
Downstairs, Kash had Sidnee on a playmat, doing tummy time. She was pushing up, her head wobbling with tremendous effort, regarding a black-and-white patterned elephant with profound suspicion. Sincere was now on his back on the sofa beside Kash, his legs being gently pedaled in the air. He let out a spectacular, rumbling fart.
“Ah,” Kash said, without looking up from his tablet. “The Singapore delegation has spoken. Crisis averted.”
Amber laughed, grabbing her bag and keys. “You’re a poet.”
“I’m a man who appreciates clear communication.” He finally glanced up, his eyes scanning her. “You look powerful. Intimidate that granite.”
She kissed Sidnee’s head, then Sincere’s. She saved Kash for last, a slow, deliberate press of her lips against his. “Call if anything.”
“We’re golden. Go.”
The drive to the design studio was a bubble of surreal silence. She played music—something aggressive and bass-heavy—and rolled the windows down, letting the cool morning air slam into her. For twenty minutes, she was just a woman in a car, navigating traffic. Not a milk factory, not a CEO, not a nurse. The relief was physical, a loosening in her shoulders.
The studio was a minimalist temple of concrete and samples. Marco, the fabricator, was a serious man with a tape measure clipped to his belt. He spread large, polished slabs of stone across a steel table. Carrara, Statuario, the coveted Calacatta Gold.
“This is the one from your pin,” Marco said, tapping the gold-veined slab. “It’s a beauty. But it’s porous. Wine, lemon juice, it will stain if you’re not meticulous.”
Amber ran her hand over the cool, glittering surface. It was reckless. It was glorious. It was everything the safe, easy laminate was not. “And if I’m meticulous?”
Marco smiled. “Then you have a piece of art you chop carrots on.”
Her phone buzzed in her bag. She ignored it. It buzzed again. And again. A tight coil formed in her gut. She pulled it out. Three missed calls from Kash. No message.
The studio’s clean lines seemed to blur. “I need to take this,” she said, her voice suddenly tight.
She stepped into the stark white hallway. He answered on the first ring. “Hey.” His voice was calm, but there was a controlled urgency beneath it. “He’s okay. Everyone’s fine.”
“What happened?”
“Just a bit of a… reflux fountain during tummy time. All over himself, me, and a surprisingly absorbent portion of the rug. It was more impressive than concerning. But he’s screaming. And I can’t get him to calm down. I think the sensation freaked him out.”
She could hear the raw, piercing cry in the background. It was the sound of sheer, outraged misery. Her body responded before her mind, a visceral pull deep in her core. “I’m fifteen minutes away.”
“Amber, you don’t have to—”
“I’m coming.” She was already walking, her heels clicking a rapid staccato on the concrete floor. Marco looked up, concerned. She waved a hand, mouthing family emergency. He nodded, understanding.
The drive home was a blur of broken lights and swallowed curses. The bubble had burst. The bass-heavy music now felt like an assault. She switched it off, sitting in the thick silence of her own panic. He’s fine. Kash said he’s fine. But logic was a feeble shout against the primal drumbeat of her fear.
She burst through the front door, her bag slipping from her shoulder. The scene in the living room was one of beautiful disaster. Kash, shirtless and damp, was pacing with a screaming, red-faced Sincere pressed against his shoulder. The air smelled of sour milk and lavender detergent. On the floor, Sidnee kicked contentedly under her gym, oblivious.
“Give him to me,” Amber said, dropping her keys.
The transfer was seamless. Sincere’s screams hitched, then intensified for a second as he registered the new handler. She cradled him, walking, shushing, her mouth pressed to his warm, sweaty temple. “Mama’s here. I know, I know. It’s icky. It’s so icky.”
She found the clean, soft cotton of her jumpsuit shoulder and guided his face to it. She swayed in a tight, rhythmic pattern, a dance her body knew deeper than memory. His cries fragmented into shuddering sobs, then into wet, hiccuping complaints against her neck. The tense little ball of his body gradually softened, melting into hers.
Kash stood amidst the wreckage, a damp burp cloth in his hand. “I tried everything. The hold, the shush, the bounce. He was just… horrified.”
“You got the worst of it off,” she said, her voice muffled against the baby’s head. She could feel Sincere’s breathing deepen, the frantic rise and fall slowing. “Is there a clean onesie?”
“Upstairs. I’ll get it.”
While he was gone, she sank onto the stool, still swaying. Sidnee grinned up at her, gumming a plastic ring. The contrast was absurd. She looked down at Sincere. His eyelids were heavy, the long, wet lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. The storm had passed, leaving wrecked innocence in its wake.
Kash returned with the onesie. They changed Sincere on the rug, a quiet, efficient team. He didn’t stir. Dressed in clean yellow cotton, he was a peaceful, warm weight in Amber’s arms, the earlier trauma erased by sleep.
Kash gathered the soiled clothes and rug into a heap. “I’ll start the laundry.”
“The Calacatta Gold is porous,” Amber said suddenly, her eyes on Sincere’s perfect, sleeping face. “Marco said wine will stain it. Lemon juice. You have to be meticulous.”
Kash stopped, the bundle in his arms. He looked at her, at the bespoke black jumpsuit now wrinkled and damp, at her fierce, tired eyes. He understood she wasn’t talking about countertops.
“So we’ll be meticulous,” he said simply.
He left for the laundry room. Amber sat in the quiet, one child sleeping in her arms, the other babbling at her feet. The sun had climbed higher, painting a bright rectangle across the messy floor. Her phone, still in her bag, buzzed again. Marco, probably. Or Meisha with a question about affirmation delivery.
She didn’t move to get it. For now, the only mission that mattered was holding the line.
The silence after the storm was a tangible thing, thick and sweet as honey. Sincere’s weight in her arms was a grounding anchor, his warm breath a tiny pulse against her neck. Sidnee, having exhausted the philosophical potential of her plastic ring, began to fuss, her mouth a searching, hungry oval.
Kash walked back in, the clean scent of laundry detergent clinging to his hands. He scooped Sidnee up before the fuss could crest. “Your turn, little senator.” He settled into the corner of the sofa with a bottle.
Amber watched him, the deft way he cradled their daughter. The morning’s chaos had etched fine lines of fatigue around his eyes, but his movements were all calm certainty. “You know,” she said, her voice low so as not to disturb Sincere, “Marco probably thinks I’m insane. I practically sprinted out of there.”
“He thinks you’re a mother.” Kash adjusted the bottle. “Anyone with a working heart gets it.”
She leaned her head back against the wall, closing her eyes. The adrenaline was receding, leaving a hollow, shaky feeling behind. Her phone buzzed again from inside her bag, a persistent, angry insect. She ignored it. Then Kash’s phone, on the coffee table, lit up. He glanced at the screen, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.
“Singapore?” she asked.
“They’re persistent.” He didn’t reach for it. “They can see I read the chain. They want a video answer.”
“You should handle it.” She opened her eyes, meeting his gaze. “The reflux fountain is contained. The line is held. Go build your firewall.”
He studied her for a long moment, then gave a single, curt nod. When Sidnee finished her bottle, he burped her with practiced efficiency and placed her in the bouncer beside Amber. “Thirty minutes. Tops.”
He disappeared into the office. The lock clicked softly behind him. Immediately, the tenor of the house changed. The low, technical murmur of his voice through the door was a wall of sound separating her from the world of breaches and liability. Here, it was just the hum of the bouncer, the tick of the clock, the profound quiet of a sleeping infant on her chest.
Her phone finally stopped buzzing. She stretched a foot out, hooking her bag with her toe and dragging it closer. She fished the phone out with her free hand. Three missed calls from Marco. A text: Understood. Family first. The sample is here when you are ready. A wave of guilt, warm and unpleasant, washed through her. She’d wasted his time.
Another text, from Meisha. A photo of Mrs. Henley’s foot, mid-sandal, with the caption: Emotional Durability, achieved. She said the paraffin wrap ‘sealed in her forgiveness for her son-in-law.’ I didn’t ask.
A laugh startled out of Amber, making Sincere stir. She soothed him with a hand on his back. She typed, You’re a poet and a scholar. Take an extra twenty from the till for your performance.
She scrolled. An email from the contractor at the manor, subject line: URGENT – Tile Discontinuation. Her stomach dropped. The hand-painted Moroccan zellige tile for the primary shower, the one she’d spent weeks sourcing, was no longer being made. They had seventy-two hours to decide on an alternative from the remaining stock or lose the deposit.
The world, with its petty and profound demands, was clawing its way back in.
Sincere began to squirm, a pre-wakeful wiggle. She lifted him, looking into his drowsy, confused face. “You have terrible timing, my love.” She laid him on the playmat to let him stretch, his limbs swimming in the air. Sidnee watched him, fascinated.
The office door opened. Kash emerged, his expression unreadable. He walked to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and drank the whole thing. He came and sat on the floor beside her, his back against the sofa. He picked up the email-facing tablet, swiped, and handed it to her. It was a flight itinerary. Charlotte to Singapore. Departure: Sunday, 8:15 PM.
Her breath caught. “You’re going.”
“I have to. It’s not a server flaw. It’s a potential systemic vulnerability. If I’m not there in person, it signals it’s not a priority.” His voice was flat, professional. “I’ll be gone seventy-two hours. In and out. Celeste is arranging a night nurse for the three nights, someone pediatric-focused, so you can sleep.”
The offer was extravagant, thoughtful, and felt like a physical blow. “I don’t need a night nurse.”
“I do.” He looked at her, his eyes fierce. “I need to know you’re getting more than two-hour slices of sleep while I’m on the other side of the planet. This isn’t negotiable, Amber.”
She wanted to argue. The independent part of her, the one that built two businesses while finishing her MBA, reared up. But the part of her that was still shaking from the 3 AM senate hearing, that could still feel the phantom vibration of panic in her hands from Kash’s call, knew he was right. It wasn’t about her capability. It was about his peace. Their peace.
“Seventy-two hours,” she echoed.
“I’ll be on video chat for every feeding if you want.” He nudged her foot with his. “You’ll probably get sick of my face.”
“Never.” The word came out too fast, too raw. She focused on the itinerary. Sunday. Three days away. “This is the ‘meticulous’ part, isn’t it? The porous countertop.”
“Yes.” He picked up Sincere, who was beginning to fuss in earnest. “We plan for the stains. We don’t panic when they happen. We just… clean them up.”
The next two days passed in a blur of orchestrated preparation. The night nurse, Eleanor’s colleague Sharon, came for an orientation. She was a calm, broad-shouldered woman with a voice like smoothed stone, who asked precise questions about routines and showed Amber a flawless swaddle technique. Kash’s suitcase appeared in the bedroom, a sleek, monolithic presence.
The manor tile crisis was resolved with a frantic video call with the designer, choosing a similar, more expensive tile from a supplier in Los Angeles. Amber signed the approval form on her tablet while nursing Sidnee, a streak of drool on the screen.
Saturday night, their last night before his departure, arrived heavy and still. They put the twins down together, a seemingly impossible feat they managed through sheer, silent teamwork. In their bedroom, Kash’s suitcase stood by the door, zipped and final.
He pulled her to him, his hands firm on her hips. There was no slow, languid rediscovery tonight. It was different. A claiming. A memorization. His mouth was hot, his touch deliberate. When he pushed inside her, it was with a focused intensity that bordered on desperation, a physical imprint to last the days ahead.
She met him, move for move, her nails scraping down his back, her teeth grazing his shoulder. It was less love-making and more pact-sealing, a wordless conversation of muscle and gasp. The climax, when it tore through them, was swift and consuming, leaving them breathless and tangled in the damp sheets.
He didn’t roll away. He held her, his face buried in the space between her neck and shoulder, his breathing gradually slowing. “I don’t want to go.”
The confession, whispered into her skin, undid her. She curled into him. “I know.”
“Say you’ll be okay.”
“We’ll be meticulous,” she whispered, echoing him. It was their new mantra.
Sunday evening draped itself over the house, a peculiar, suspended grief. Sharon arrived at six, her calm presence both a relief and a reminder. Kash kissed the twins, long and deep, breathing them in. Sincere blinked at him, serene. Sidnee gummed his chin.
Then it was just him and Amber at the front door. The black car waited at the curb, its engine a quiet purr.
“Call me when you land,” she said, her hand fisted in the front of his shirt.
“I’ll call you before we push back from the gate.” He kissed her, a slow, lingering promise. Then he was gone, the door closing with a soft, definitive click.
The house felt different. Larger, emptier, and yet unbearably full. She walked back into the living room. Sharon was reading a novel in the armchair, the baby monitor on the table beside her. She looked up and smiled. “Why don’t you go take a bath, Mrs. King? I have the watch.”
Amber nodded, wordless. In their bathroom, she ran the water hot, adding the amber-scented oil Kash loved. She sank into the tub, the water sloshing, and let the tears come. They were quiet, exhausted things, for the empty space in the bed, for the terrifying responsibility thrumming in the quiet house, for the stubborn, fierce pride that stopped her from begging him to stay.
She dressed in his old t-shirt. In the nursery, Sharon was a silhouette in the glider, Sidnee a soft lump in her arms. Everything was in order. Everything was under control.
Her phone, charging on her nightstand, lit up. A text from Kash. At the gate. They’re boarding. I already hate the silence.
She typed back, It’s not silent here. Someone just filled their diaper with what sounded like serious intent. The legacy continues.
His reply was immediate. Tell them Daddy’s proud.
She climbed into the center of the bed, the cool sheets vast around her. She pulled his pillow to her, inhaling the fading trace of his cologne. On the monitor, she could see Sincere’s crib, his little form a dark mound.
She closed her eyes. The line was held. It was just her now. Meticulous and alone, in the quiet, porous dark.