Anna laughed again, then winced from the effort.
Caleb noticed immediately.
His expression changed.
“You okay?”
“I’m sore.
I’m tired.
I’m okay.”
He reached for the water cup on her table without being asked and held it while she drank.
That small act settled him.
Something needed doing.
Caleb understood doing.
He adjusted the blanket when Anna said it had slipped.
He moved the chair closer.
He plugged in her phone.
He found the charger she thought she had lost.
He asked the nurse which things Anna could eat and returned with crackers, juice and the least offensive hospital coffee he could find.
Each task gave him somewhere to put the guilt.
At 5:17 a.m., Anna finally asked, “Have you slept at all?”
Caleb shook his head.
“When did you last stop riding?”
“Depends what counts as stopping.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Caleb.”
“Gas in Kansas.
Maybe twenty minutes.”
“You’re not touching that motorcycle again today.”
“Wasn’t planning to.”
“Good.”
“I think my backside has legally separated from my body anyway.”
Anna almost laughed, then pointed toward the recliner.
“Sit.”
“I’m sitting.”
“Sleep.”
“No.”
“Rooster.”
He looked at her.
Very few people called him Caleb when they were serious.
Anna did the opposite.
“Caleb.
Sleep.
She’s not going anywhere.”
His eyes moved toward the baby.
That was precisely what frightened him.
For months, fatherhood had been a future event.
A due date.
A crib assembled in the spare room.
Diapers stacked beside a changing table.
A car seat he had installed, removed, watched three videos about and installed again.
Now fatherhood was breathing six inches from his hand.
He didn’t want to miss another second.
Anna seemed to read that on his face.
“You already made it,” she said.
Caleb looked at her.
“You’re here.
She knows your voice.
Sleep for an hour.”
