Seth

Ipull my mask and gloves off and shrug out of a blood-soaked medical robe. I wash my hands and arms in a nearby sink.

“Good work, Dr. Reed,” the nurse says. That one was touch-and-go for a few minutes. Gabby and I have been in Africa for two weeks. We were supposed to be on vacation, but at the last minute, someone asked us to volunteer at a clinic. We have been giving vaccinations all week, but today, some casualties came in from a gang war. I lost two and saved one. And Gabby lost one and saved two.

I step into the tent next door to look for her. “Has anyone seen the other Dr. Reed?” I call out. She was still working on a gunshot wound when I was rerouted to the other tent. Technically, Gabby’s specialty is neurology, but she can handle just about anything.

“She’s over here!” the nurse sings out.

I see her as she walks toward me. She’s drying her hands on a towel, having just washed up. She looks like she’s almost dead on her feet. She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. The ring I gave her all those years ago glistens from where she wears it on a cord around her neck while she saves lives. She smiles when she sees me. “How did it go?” she asks.

“One is doing well,” I say. I don’t need to say more than that. This area is low on medical supplies. Every time we go to impoverished areas to volunteer, we end up fighting the elements, the people, and the economy—not just diseases. But we do our best.

A little girl toddles past. She can’t be more than two. She is super thin, and Gabby frowns.

“Whose child is this?” she calls out.

The little girl looks up at Gabby and smiles. Gabby smiles back. Then Gabby sucks in a breath when the little girl walks over to her and extends her arms for Gabby to pick her up. Gabby doesn’t hesitate. The child is filthy, much too thin, and she has sores on her arms and legs, probably from malnutrition.

“Does anybody know whose baby this is?” Gabby calls again.

A woman runs into the tent. She’s one of the volunteers from the intake area. “She was with me!” she cries. She reaches to take the child from Gabby, but the little girl lays her head on Gabby’s chest and refuses to let go. “Her mom died yesterday, and we can’t find any family. We are making do,” the woman explains.

Gabby’s eyes meet mine. We don’t have any children. We never wanted any. Not until right at that moment. Gabby arches her brow and doesn’t say a word.

“Yes,” I say. I might regret it later, but I go with my gut, just like my mom always said to do.

“Yes?” Gabby repeats.

I nod. “Yes.”

“Are you sure?” she asks. “Really?”

“Yes,” I repeat.

It takes us a year because we do an exhaustive search looking for family members while she gets healthy, but the next Christmas, there is one more Reed at the dinner table—ours.

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