Chapter Sixteen #2
“Easy, Hoop,” Macon called, but his focus was on me. “Breathe. You got this. You’re stronger than this.”
I barked a laugh, sweat slick on my face. “Fuck you,” I said, but there was no heat in it.
“That’s my Carter.” He pressed a kiss to my temple, the softness at odds with the rest of his body, which was locked in a combat-ready coil. “Tell me what you need.”
“Drugs. Or a time machine. Maybe both.”
He actually smiled. “We’re almost there. Hooper’s breaking every speed record on the continent.”
Hooper whooped from the front. “Hang tight, buddy. I’m getting you there in one piece!”
Burke twisted around, eyes glittering with adrenaline. “You need anything? Water? Beef jerky?”
“Unless you have an epidural in the glove box, I’m good,” I spat, half-choked on another wave of pain.
Burke whistled. “That’s a no on the jerky.”
Jackson, who’d been dead silent until then, said, “Hospital’s ten minutes out. I called ahead. They’re ready for us.”
Macon nodded, shifting so my head rested on his chest. “You hear that? You’re going to be fine. I’m not letting go of you. Not for anything.”
The next contraction hit, and I saw stars. I curled into his chest, fingers digging at the collar of his shirt. “It hurts,” I said, voice small and shaking. “It really fucking hurts.”
He held me tighter, one hand massaging the base of my skull. “You’re doing great. Just hang on a little longer.”
For a while, the world shrank to the cab of the Humvee. Sweat. Shaking. Macon’s breath in my hair. The pulse in his throat.
I rode out the pain, alternating between blank terror and flashes of memory: the way Macon had looked at me the night we finished the nursery, the taste of river water on my lips, the way Jojo’s baby had fit in the crook of my arm that one perfect night.
The idea that I could have that, too, was what kept me from blacking out.
We shot through town like a guided missile, the Humvee drawing every eye on Main Street. Hooper jumped the curb and took the ER entrance at speed. He yanked the handbrake and the whole vehicle shuddered to a stop, the seatbelt bruising my shoulder.
Macon was out the door first, scooping me into his arms again. I clung to his neck, teeth gritted, vision tunneling.
Inside, it was a blur: nurses shouting, someone with a wheelchair, Macon barking instructions like he’d taken over the triage team. I was wheeled down a corridor, lights whizzing overhead, the smell of disinfectant burning my nose.
They got me into a room, stripped me down, and started poking at my arms. I barely noticed, because the contractions were on top of each other now, and every one left me shivering.
A doctor appeared. She had dark hair, kind eyes, and a voice that cut through the panic. “Hi, Carter. I’m Dr. Kaye. Looks like your baby is in a hurry.”
“No shit,” I groaned.
She smiled, professional and calming. “We’re going to help you, okay? But you need to breathe.”
I nodded, or tried to.
Macon was right there, never letting go of my hand. “I’m here,” he kept saying, even when I screamed, even when I sobbed. “I’m not leaving. You got this.”
There was a flurry of movement, a blur of faces. Nurses. Monitors. The world snapped into this weird, slow-motion clarity. I heard everything: the beep of the machines, the squeak of the nurse’s shoes, the ragged edge in Macon’s voice as he whispered, “I love you,” into my ear.
At some point, someone tried to usher him out. “Sir, you need to wait outside—”
“No.” Macon’s voice was flat, absolute. “He needs me.”
That was enough. They didn’t argue again.
I lost track of time. Minutes. Hours. The pain blurred together until it was all I was, all I’d ever been. I screamed, cussed, begged, pleaded, and through it all Macon held my hand, wiped the sweat from my brow, and whispered things I couldn’t remember but would never forget.
“You’re almost there,” the doctor said, glancing at the monitor. “Just one more push, Carter. You can do this.”
I wanted to quit. I wanted to float away and never come back.
But then Macon leaned in, lips at my ear, voice so full of hope it hurt worse than anything. “Come back to me, Carter. I need you. The baby needs you.”
I gritted my teeth, clawed at his arm, and gave it everything I had.
There was a white-out moment, a split-second where the whole world paused.
Then, the cry.
Not mine. Not Macon’s.
The baby’s.
“It’s a girl,” someone said, but I was crying too hard to process it. Macon’s arms were around me, holding me together, and I let myself fall into him, boneless, every part of me still humming from the shock.
They brought her to me—tiny, wriggling, mad as hell. I stared down at her, not believing it, not believing any of it. She had all ten fingers, all ten toes, a mop of brown hair and a scowl that could level a city block.
“Hi,” I whispered, and the baby blinked at me like she was sizing up whether I was worth the trouble.
Macon laughed, tears in his eyes, and kissed the top of my head. “You did it,” he said, and I believed him.
I really did.
They cleaned her up, wrapped her in a blanket, and put her back in my arms. I stared at her, dazed, waiting for the moment when I’d recognize her, when I’d feel like a father. But all I could think was: I hope you never, ever have to feel as invisible as I did.
She opened her eyes, and they were gray—just like mine.
I held her close, and for the first time in my life, felt whole.
Rawley showed up with Jojo and the baby, their little trio crammed into the corner of the room. Hooper brought a stuffed goat, which he insisted was “good luck.” Burke and Jackson stood sentry at the door, refusing to let anyone—especially my father—inside unless they had a damn good reason.
After a while, the room emptied out, and it was just me and Macon and the baby. He held me, arms wrapped tight, and whispered, “You’re not invisible anymore, Carter.”
And he was right.
I wasn’t.
Not to him. Not to her.
Not ever again.
The hours after the birth slid away like a slow leak, time bleeding out at the corners of the world. I’d always imagined there’d be a moment—a sharp, cinematic second where everything snapped into place, where you looked down at the little person and thought, Okay, I get it now.
But that’s not how it happened.
Instead, I watched the baby in the curve of my arm, stunned and barely breathing, waiting for the joy to show up and make everything make sense.
She looked nothing like I’d imagined.
For one thing, she was small, so small it scared the shit out of me, every inch of her a study in contradiction: the wild spray of brown hair matted damp against her scalp, the impossibly delicate fingers curled in a fist, the gray eyes—my eyes—darting around as if cataloguing the world just in case it got snatched away.
For another, she was loud, louder than any baby I’d ever met, a raw, outraged squall that filled the room and made my eardrums hum.
Macon sat beside me in the battered vinyl armchair, one hand braced at the nape of my neck, the other holding my free hand with a grip so gentle it made my chest ache.
We didn’t say much, at first. The hospital room was a holding pen for everything that was too big for words—love, fear, the future.
I was too tired to speak and too afraid to sleep, in case the whole thing turned out to be a stress dream or a trick of anesthesia.
But every time my eyelids dipped, I’d snap awake and find the baby still there, warm and heavy, realer than anything I’d ever owned.
A nurse came in to check the baby’s vitals. She wore her exhaustion with pride, dark circles under her eyes like old campaign ribbons. “She’s a champ,” the nurse said, and gave us a tired thumbs-up before retreating, shutting the door with a click.
Macon smiled at the baby, then at me. “She’s perfect,” he said, voice so soft I had to lean in to catch it.
“She looks pissed,” I managed, and I wasn’t wrong—the baby’s mouth was twisted into a tiny scowl, her fists flailing whenever the air touched her skin.
“She takes after her daddy,” Macon said. “Both of them.”
A laugh wobbled out of me, thin as a bird bone. “You’re going to spoil her rotten, aren’t you?”
He bent and kissed the top of my head, beard scratching my scalp. “Absolutely.”
We sat there, soaking in the silence, watching the baby cycle between outrage and exhaustion.
I tried to imagine what her life would be: would she run wild with the goats and horses, or grow up bookish and cautious like me?
Would she inherit Macon’s steadiness, or my habit of setting fires just to see what burned?
Every few minutes, the baby would yawn, eyes rolling back in her head, then snap awake like she’d remembered something urgent.
I knew exactly how she felt.
“I’m scared,” I admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
Macon squeezed my hand, thumb tracing the ridges of my knuckles. “Me too, but we’ll figure it out.”
He meant it, and somehow that was enough.
Later, when the baby was asleep and swaddled in a blanket so tight she looked like a chipotle burrito, Macon ran a damp washcloth over my face and arms, cleaning away the sticky residue of the day.
“You look like shit,” he said, but his voice was all honey.
“Feel worse,” I replied, and let my head loll against his shoulder. He smelled like antiseptic and sawdust and sweat, a combination that, for some reason, felt like home.
“You want visitors?” he asked, nodding toward the closed door.
I shook my head, then hesitated. “Maybe Jojo. If he’s here.”
“He’s been in the waiting room since they got here,” Macon said. “He and Rawley. They won’t leave until they see you’re alive.”
I tried to sit up, and Macon eased me upright, arranging the bed so I could at least pretend to be presentable. The baby grumbled in her sleep, fists still balled up, but didn’t wake.