Chapter 42
SAWYER
Hospitals always smell the same. Antiseptic and over-processed air. Something vaguely sweet beneath it, like cherry-flavored cough syrup or old flowers. And bleach, of course. Always bleach.
I rub the sticker on my chest with my thumb—white with blue block letters that say GUEST. It’s curling at the edges already.
The walk from the front desk to Anna’s room feels longer than it should. Not because it is—but because everything in me is still moving in slow motion. Like I haven’t caught up to the day yet. Or maybe the day hasn’t caught up to me.
I delivered a baby. A real one. A human one.
And for a moment—one brief, awful moment—I thought she might not make it.
I’ve done hundreds of calvings, some with complications worse than this, but that moment…that baby…that silence right before she cried…it did something to me I still don’t know how to name.
Afterward, I took Hank and Winnie to my parents’. Checked on a couple of the heifers that are close, then drove straight here.
And still, it doesn’t feel real.
I pass two nurses who nod politely, and a guy in flannel who claps me on the shoulder like we’re old friends. That’s the thing about small towns—every hallway’s familiar, even when the walls are sterile and gray and closing in.
When I find the right room, the door’s cracked open.
Anna’s lying in the hospital bed, propped up by pillows, smiling. There’s a faint flush in her cheeks, and she looks more rested now. She’s talking to a couple sitting against the far wall—they must be her parents.
But it’s Wren that stops me.
She’s sitting on the other side of the room, cradling Anna’s baby in her arms.
Her head is bent low, her red hair falling over her shoulder, and she’s smiling down at the little girl. The baby’s tiny fingers are wrapped around one of Wren’s, and her other hand moves gently down the bridge of the baby’s nose.
Wren looks…different.
Gentler. Quieter. Almost luminous. And I don’t mean that in some poetic sense—I mean she’s literally glowing. From the inside out. Like everything’s been softened in her. Like holding that baby opened up a part of her I’ve never seen before.
God, I love seeing her like this.
Anna looks up and spots me. “Sawyer,” she says, her face brightening. “Hi! I’m glad you came by.”
Her parents stand as I walk in.
Her dad steps forward first, sticking out his hand. “Are you the one who delivered my granddaughter?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, shaking his hand.
He nods hard, his eyes glossy. “I’m Paul,” he says. “And I can’t thank you enough.”
Anna’s mom steps up beside him. “You saved her. You helped her through something that must’ve been terrifying. Thank you.”
I shake my head. “It was no problem at all. I was happy I could be there.”
I glance toward Anna, then nod toward the baby. “Mind if I come closer?”
“Please do,” she says, beaming. “She wants to meet her hero.”
I grab some hand sanitizer from the wall dispenser and rub it into my hands as I walk over, the chemical scent sharp against the air.
Wren doesn’t look up when I sit down beside her in one of the flimsy hospital chairs. My knee juts awkwardly against the plastic rail. These chairs weren’t made for men my size.
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Wren murmurs.
I nod, my throat thick. Beautiful doesn’t seem like the right word.
She’s angelic. Otherworldly. Tiny and pink, with dark hair that’s already curling slightly at the edges. The nurses stuck a little pink bow just above her temple. Her cheeks are round and chubby. Her lashes—dark and long—sit against them like they’re painted on. Her lips are in a soft little pout.
I could sit here forever. Just watching Wren watch her.
Wren looks up at me then. “Do you want to hold her?”
I pause. Not because I don’t want to, but because I haven’t—not like this —in a long time.
The last time I held a baby this small was Nora, years ago. Before she started sprinting everywhere in tutus and Band-Aids.
And the last baby I was going to hold like this…I blink, trying not to let the thought unravel me here.
Wren’s eyes search mine, soft and knowing. “I can help you,” she says gently, like she knows the hesitation has nothing to do with the logistics and everything to do with the ghosts.
I just nod.
She stands and moves slowly. The baby’s all wrapped up in a white hospital blanket, her little bow still perfectly in place. Wren shifts her carefully into my arms, her hands guiding mine until I’m cradling her just right.
She’s so light. It barely feels like I’m holding anything at all. And somehow, at the same time, it feels like everything .
Wren sits beside me again, settling into the chair close enough that her knee brushes mine. She smiles down at the baby like this is the most extraordinary moment in the world.
I glance down, adjusting slightly. The baby makes a soft sound and then—like it’s muscle memory—my hand moves instinctively to hold hers.
Her entire fist curls around my forefinger without hesitation. Her fingernails are the size of rice grains. Her skin is impossibly soft.
And then, for the briefest second, her mouth shifts. A hint of a smile. Barely there.
Wren leans in, her voice low, awed. “She likes you.”
I laugh, still watching her. “Or it’s just gas.”
Wren laughs too, softly, her head resting gently against my shoulder.
But something happens in me— is happening in me. Not loud. Not sudden. More like a slow stitching of a broken heart. Like frayed pieces of me are being pulled back together, cell by cell.
I was supposed to do this. Not with Anna’s baby. Not here. But with mine. With Violet. This moment was supposed to belong to her.
And somehow— somehow —holding this little girl doesn’t make it worse. It doesn’t hollow me out the way I thought it might.
It makes room.
Like there’s space in me again. Like maybe love didn’t rot out the whole foundation after all.
It’s not closure. I don’t think that exists. But it’s something.
I glance over at Anna. “Does she have a name yet?”
Anna sighs, slow and tired, like the question has been sitting heavy on her chest for hours. “No. The adoptive family was supposed to pick. But since they’re not in the picture anymore…she’s kind of nameless.”
I look down at the baby in my arms. Still sleeping. Still perfect.
I shake my head slightly. “What happened?”
And what I really mean is: How could anyone willingly walk away from this? From her?
From this tiny, breathing miracle?
Anna exhales and runs a hand through her hair. “I told them from the start I wanted an open adoption. That was important to me. I mean, I know I’m too young—I need to finish school, get a job, get a real footing in life. I know that. I’m not pretending I’ve got it all figured out.”
She glances down at her daughter, softening. “But I also didn’t want to just…hand her off and pretend she never happened. I want updates. Pictures. Something.”
Wren’s still sitting beside me, listening, her eyes fixed on Anna.
Anna swallows. “At first, the family said they understood. Said they were on board. But the closer we got, the more they started pushing back. Saying it’d be ‘confusing’ for her to know I was still around. That I should wait until she’s eighteen. That they’d be the ones to decide what’s best.”
She looks up, her eyes a little red but steady. “And maybe they thought I’d just go along with it. But I couldn’t. It didn’t feel right.”
I nod, quiet.
Wren speaks up then. “Paul, Cindy…you can’t take her?”
Anna’s parents shift awkwardly in their chairs. Paul leans forward first, clearing his throat. “My wife—”
But Cindy puts a hand on his arm and finishes for him. “I have stage three ovarian cancer,” she says. “Diagnosed six months ago. I just finished my first round of chemo.”
She gives a sad, small smile. “We’ve offered, of course. But the truth is, we’re barely managing the appointments and treatments. Bringing a baby into that wouldn’t be fair to her. Or to Anna.”
I look at her, at the way her hand still rests gently on her husband’s arm, and I don’t doubt that she means every word. That if things were different, she’d be the first to step up. That maybe she already has, in every way she could.
Anna looks between them for a beat, then shifts her gaze back to us.
“I think,” she says quietly, “I found a new family for her, though.”
Wren tilts her head, puzzled. “Who?”
Anna looks at both of us now. “You two.”
And for a moment—everything stops. The air stills. The sounds of monitors and footsteps and distant voices fall away. It’s just Wren. Me. And the baby asleep in my arms.
Wren whips her head toward me, her eyes wide and blinking like she’s not sure she heard right.
I feel it too—that jolt, that disoriented tilt of the room. My arms instinctively tighten around the baby, like maybe if I hold her a little closer, this moment will make more sense.
Us?
She’s asking us?
Wren stares at me like she’s trying to read my mind, like maybe I’ve got an answer she doesn’t yet. But I don’t. My brain is still catching up. The only baby things we own are in Violet’s room—and most of them are still in boxes. We don’t even have a car seat. Or bottles. Or diapers. Or formula.
Wren’s voice breaks through the pounding in my ears. “But…us?” she says softly. “Why us?”
Anna laughs, but there’s a crack in it. The kind that comes from a place too full to hold in.
“Why not you?” she says. “You have everything a social worker could possibly ask for. You’re financially stable, emotionally grounded…and you already love her. I can see it.”
She looks at Wren then, her eyes glassy. “And I’ve known your family long enough to know she’d be safe. She’d be loved. You two would be the best parents.”
I look back down at the baby in my arms. Her lips twitch in her sleep, her lashes resting soft against her cheeks. And then I glance up at Anna again.
“But how does that work?” I ask. “We can’t just…walk out of here with her, right? I mean there’s got to be some sort of system in place.”