I stared at the words until they blurred into a shape I recognized from childhood: warning dressed as concern.
I typed one reply.
Too late.
Then I turned the phone face down.
Emily woke at 4:17 a.m.
At first, I thought I had imagined it. Her eyes opened only halfway, unfocused and glassy beneath the dim hospital light. She looked toward the ceiling, then toward the window, then finally toward me.
For one fragile second, there was no anger in her face.
Only confusion.
Then memory returned.
Her eyes filled.
I stood, knocking the chair backward.
“Emily.”
She tried to pull her hand away from mine. I had not even realized I was holding it.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
I released her immediately.
Pain moved across her face, but whether it came from her body or from seeing me, I could not tell.
“Where am I?”
“St. Catherine’s. You collapsed.”
Her hand went to her stomach.
“The baby?”
“Heartbeat is strong.” My voice nearly failed. “The baby is strong.”
Her eyes closed. A tear slipped sideways into her hair.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then she said, “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I know.”
That made her look at me again. She had expected defense, perhaps anger. I had given her neither.
“I read your letter,” I said.
Her face changed instantly. Fear broke through the exhaustion.
“No. Luke, you weren’t supposed to—”
“It said For Luke.”
“I wrote it when I thought…” She swallowed. “I don’t know what I thought.”
“You thought no one would believe you.”
She looked away.