Chapter 7: Three A.M.

Tilly woke at three in the morning, furious, and so did I.

Greg's spare room had a twin bed, a borrowed crib and a lamp with a paper shade.

I carried her out to the kitchen and found the light already on.

He sat at the table in a gray T-shirt with a mug in front of him.

"Night shift habit," he said, before I could ask. "I don't sleep till four."

"I woke you."

"You didn't."

I opened the fridge for the bottle I had pumped.

My hands were not working.

Tilly screamed against my shoulder, and I fumbled the cap and the bottle slid out of my fingers and rolled under the table.

I stood there with my daughter yelling in my ear and burst into tears.

"Hey," Greg said.

"I can't do it. I can't even hold a bottle. I'm supposed to be able to do this."

"You're three days into the worst week of your life."

"Four," I said. "It's four."

"Four." He got up, picked the bottle off the floor, rinsed it and held out his hands. "Give her here for a second."

"You don't know how."

"I've held a lot of babies in the back of a rig." He took her. "I'm better at them than at most people."

Tilly stopped crying so suddenly that the quiet rang.

He held her against his chest with one big hand cupping her whole head, and her fist opened on his T-shirt.

I stared.

"How did you do that?"

"Warm hands," he said. "Heartbeat. She likes it low."

He warmed the bottle in a mug of hot water, tested it on his wrist and gave it back to me with the baby.