Chapter 17: Every Other Sunday

Calla's POV

Corey held his daughter for the first time at ten minutes past eleven.

The nurse had unbuttoned his dress shirt and laid the baby against his bare chest, with a blanket over her and a wire taped to her foot.

He sat in the recliner by the incubator with his big hands spread across her back, afraid to close them.

Bree stood beside him with her hand in his hair.

I watched them through the NICU glass, with my son asleep against my shoulder.

"She's so light," Corey said. His voice came through the door, hoarse and cracked. "I picked out a casket this size."

"Don't," said Bree.

"I'm sorry."

"Tell her your name instead."

He bent his head to the baby's ear and told her.

I stepped back from the glass.

It was not mine to see.

At the end of the hall, the elevator opened, and Ansel came toward me at a fast walk with Dalton one step behind him.

Dalton had left his dress jacket somewhere.

His shirt was untucked, and his eyes were swollen.

"She's here," Ansel said. "Imogen. She sent a picture of the front sign. I don't know where she is in the building."

"Then we have until she finds the third floor."

"Calla..."

"Ten minutes," I said. "Dalton, come with me."

I took them to the family lounge, the one with the gray couch and the box of tissues.

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