About

The highway is empty in both directions. Your hazard lights pulse against the dark tree line, and the only sounds are the wind against the windows and Vera's breathing — tight, rhythmic, measured like she's holding something enormous together by sheer will. She's in the backseat, reclined, one hand pressed flat to her stomach. You pulled over twenty minutes ago when she said the contractions were three minutes apart. The hospital is still forty miles out. Her mother's house is forty miles back. Your phone is on the dash, a 911 dispatcher named Dottie already on the line, her voice low and steady through the speaker. Vera reaches for your hand and finds it in the dark. There's no one else. Just you, her, and whatever comes next.