Page 161 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby

It does.

Rafe texts a photo of the waiting room coffee machine with a caption,Tastes like hope and burnt pennies. You good?

I send back a single picture—Elisa’s hand, the baby’s hand, mine under both.We’re good. Go home. Sleep. Tell nobody anything.

Tino replies with a string of tree emojis and a single wrench.

I assume it’s a sentiment.

Dr. Conte finishes whatever magic she does like it’s ordinary, then leans on the rail and looks at us with a face that says she sees everything and none of it surprises her anymore.

“You did good,” she tells Elisa.

Elisa huffs. “Don’t say that,” she says. “Makes me nervous.”

“Fine. You were adequate with flair,” Conte deadpans.

“That’s my line,” I tell her.

She pats my shoulder like I’m a chair that held.

“It’s everybody’s now,” she says and leaves us to the quiet.

“Call your mother,” Elisa says when she can breathe without doing calculus.

“I’ll call both,” I say, because I am equal opportunity in terror. “One will bring soup. The other will bring opinions.”

“She can keep the opinions on the landing,” Elisa murmurs and then looks down at our daughter like the wordlandingchanged meaning.

I take the tiny hat from the bassinet, the one with the ridiculous pompom somebody somewhere thought was essential, and place it on a skull that is not big enough for anything and somehow big enough for the whole future.

It lists to the left.

She scowls.

I adjust.

She scowls harder.

Elisa smiles like pain never existed on earth.

“You okay?” I ask her uselessly.

She nods. “I did a thing,” she says, dazed and victorious. “You helped.”

“Team sport,” I say, and my voice breaks on it because I’m not made for this kind of joy without a hitch.

We watch her breathe.

That’s all we do.

It makes a person of you.

It makes a promise of you.

The radiator clicks in approval.

The snow keeps auditioning for a role.