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As they walked into the kitchen, Cleo continued to wave her left hand over her cupped right. “I’m consulting my Magic 8 Ball. Outcome good. There, no need to worry.”

She decided not to, especially since leftovers and a fluffy movie hit all the right notes.

And as she settled into bed to read herself to sleep, she got another text.

Just checking in. Dinner meeting ran over. I am unsurprised by that. Are things quiet? If not, I can head up.

All quiet, but thanks. Worked late anyway, then practiced the presentation for Cleo. We’re fine here.

Then I’ll see you tomorrow. Maybe you can practice on me. I’d like to see the presentation. If the quiet doesn’t hold, text me.

I will. See you tomorrow.

And what the hell, she added a heart emoji. Then smiled when he sent one back.

She didn’t wake at three, but she dreamed.

First came music. Mick Jagger couldn’t get no satisfaction. Then the voices, a man’s sounding shaky, nervous. A woman cried out in pain.

As the dream cleared, she saw the fire first, one set to roar in the hearth. Then the room. Her room, she realized. This room, though the walls were papered, and the paper patchy and faded.

But her bed, and in her bed, a woman—barely more than a girl—with her long blond hair tangled, sweaty, her pretty face pale, her blue eyes glazed.

Lilian Crest Poole. Clover, laboring to deliver her sons.

My father, Sonya thought, frozen in place. My father and Collin.

A man—barely more than a boy—knelt beside her, gripping her hands. His dark hair fell nearly to his shoulders, and his eyes, Poole green, swam with tears.

“It’s okay.” Clover turned her head toward him. “That one’s over. I didn’t know it would hurt so much! It hurts so much, Charlie.”

“We were supposed to have more time to practice. Weeks more. Fucking storm.” He looked toward the glass doors, where thick snow whirled. “We’re stuck, babe. And everyone else took off when they said this was coming.”

“It’s you and me.” She smiled at him as he wiped a cloth over her face. “You and me and our babies. Because there’s two of them, like I told you. I felt two of them. That’s why it’s early. We read all the books on home births. And we’ve got music.”

“As long as we’ve got batteries, you’re going to have music. All the ones I recorded for you. Hey, ‘I Only Want to Be with You.’”

“It’s crazy but it’s true,” Clover sang, then broke off with a moan, a sob. “Another one’s coming. Oh God, oh God, oh God. Charlie!”

“Take a hit, Clove, just one hit. I’ve got a joint right here. It’ll help.”

But she shook her head as she struggled to breathe through the contraction. “Not good for babies. Charlie!”

“I’m here, right here. Look at me, babe. I only want to be with you,” he sang as she let out another cry, as her head swiveled on the pillow as if to find some relief.

But as contraction built on contraction, no relief came.

“I have to push!”

“I see a head! Holy shit, Clove! It’s happening. It’s really happening.”

She pushed, and she wept; she fought, and she laughed.

And in blood and pain and sweat, delivered a son.

“I got him!” Tears rolled down Charlie’s cheek even as his Poole green eyes lit with wonder. “Wow, listen to him yell! Rock star. He’s really small, but he’s perfect. Look, we’ve got a boy. I’m going to tie off the cord, like we read, cut it.”

She held out her arms for the squalling baby, gathered him in. “He’s beautiful. Isn’t he beautiful?”