I had forgotten about that computer, an old silver machine I thought was broken.
“We have to go to the hospital,” I said. “Maya needs to know this before it hits the newspapers.”
The light in Maya’s hospital room was dim, the gray winter afternoon casting long shadows across the linoleum floor.
Liam was asleep in the clear plastic bassinet beside the bed, his chest rising and falling beneath his thin flannel swaddle.
Maya was sitting in the vinyl armchair, her right hand pressed flat over her surgical incision as she watched me walk in.
“You have that look on your face,” she said softly. “The one you get when a project is behind schedule.”
“It is a bit more than a schedule issue, Maya,” I said, pulling a wooden stool close to her chair.
I took her hand. Her skin was warm, but her fingers were tense, winding around my own.
