Page 4 of What Makes an Alien a Dad?

“Can I take you to your apartment?” he asked.

Actually, he should take her back to the lab and take an entirely new set of data. Just to make sure nothing horrible was threatening his study subject.

Worry wormed into his chest.

“Are you hurt? Any cramping? Bleeding?”

His heart thumped in his chest at the last word. Risk factors could spring up during any pregnancy. And this one was so unique, even he didn’t know exactly what to expect.

Misery eased from her expression. She made a visible effort to collect herself.

“No. Sorry, Professor Thormus. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m well. Just...” She sniffed again, glancing aside. “Just some things from back home... Nothing to worry about.”

He noticed a tablet on the ground next to her. Irritation stirred in him. He had considered forbidding her all outside communications for the duration of the study, but Representative Alcus Hecear from the Voranian branch of the Liaison Committee convinced him that keeping in touch with the subject’s loved ones would be good for her mental health.

Now, he could punch himself for agreeing with that. Any communication carried the risk of receiving bad news, and bad news never improved anyone’s wellbeing.

“You can go, Professor Thormus.” She waved at him. “I’ll be fine. Promise.”

The fact that she knew his name made him feel guilty about having forgotten hers. But then again, this clinic bore his name. It was on the signs on every floor and all official documentation. It made it much easier to remember.

Hers, on the other hand...

“Listen, Madam... Um.”

She wiped the tears off her cheeks with the end of the hospital robe she was wearing over the examination gown. “Just Maya.”

“Pardon me?”

“You can just call me Maya. It’s my first name. You don’t have to say Madam Gupta all the time.”

He’d never said either. But at least now he had her name.

Maya.

It was short enough to remember.

She kept rubbing at her cheeks with her robe, sitting in the dirt of the flowerbed. He cringed at the thought of the germs she must’ve picked up by crawling around. Producing a pack of sanitizing wipes from his pocket, he handed her one.

“Here. It’s gentle enough to use on your face.” He pulled out another one. “And this one is for your hands.”

“Thanks.” She took the wipes, cleaned her face and hands, then blew her nose.

With all those tears running for who knew how long, she must be dehydrated. She likely hadn’t had lunch yet either if she’d been sitting here since her morning exam.

“When was the last time you ate?”

She balled up the wipes and stuffed them into the pocket of her robe.

“I’m not hungry.”

Hunger had nothing to do with it. She required a steady flow of nutrition to ensure an optimal environment for the fetus. Skipping meals was unacceptable and against the rules outlined in the contract.

“Come. I’ll get you lunch.” He climbed to his hooves.

There was a smudge on the left pant leg of his coverall. The dirt from the flower bed must have gotten on it somehow, despite his best efforts to avoid it. He winced at the sight of the dark-brown stain on the crisp white fabric. But there were infinitely more stains on the human’s clothes. He had to get her out of those bushes.

“Come on.” He offered her a hand.

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