Page 78 of Harper

“Fucking facts, cuz.”

“Talk soon?”

“I’ll call you when I’m home.”

“Tang’rciqamken, iluwaq.”

“Bye, Sandra.”

I hang up the phone and hold it in my hand, looking out at the water, in the general direction of Anchorage.

A perinatologist. Hmm. A perinatologist. What exactly is that?

I open an internet browser on my phone and look up what a perinatologist does. Google explains that a perinatologist is an OB/GYN who specializes in high-risk pregnancies.

High-risk. I definitely don’t love the sound of that.

I close my eyes, trying to remember what Harper said about her first pregnancy. I was so distracted by the news that she had had a child nine years ago and had another on the way, that recall is difficult. I concentrate hard and bits and pieces come back to me: traumatic…almost died…blood loss…unconscious. And then I remember what she said the first time she told me she was pregnant—she told me that she’d had an operation years ago while she was “away” and that the doctor told her she’d never be able to have children naturally.

Huh. I wince, taking a deep breath and letting it go slowly. Fuck.

She’s seeing a special doctor because she almost died giving birth to Moriah Raven, and she’s scared it could happen again.And as much as I don’t want to care about Harper, I can’t help it. I do. I fucking care.

I open a text box and stare at it for a long moment before typing.

Joe

Sandra told me about your appointment in Anchorage. I need the details. I’ll be there.

Almost instantly, three dots appear, cycling, telling me that Harper’s reading my words.

Harper

I’m really glad. Are you okay?

***

Joe

Will all appointments be in Anchorage?

***

Harper

No. Most will be in Skagway.

You can come to any appointment you want.

***

Joe

I’ll be coming to all.

***

Harper

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