Page 76 of Final Down

A new list. Awesome.

My sister has shipped four-hundred and sixty DO BETTER shirts in the last month. The volume is up for the holidays, which is understandable, but the orders are still going strong now, afterNew Year’s, and there’s no sign of things letting up anytime soon.

“How are you holding up?”

My mom pops her head into the pantry, twisting the fan I fashioned to the door jamb to keep things cool in here. It might be winter, but I’m the size of a theme park character, so hot is my baseline.

“She’s going to outgrow the pantry at this rate,” I laugh out.

My mom picks up one of the yellow long-sleeved shirts my sister made and holds it up to view.

“I like this one,” she says, turning it around and laying it over her chest. It’s the same slogan with flowers.

“You should keep it. I know the owner,” I joke.

My mom’s eyes crinkle with her smile, and she slings the shirt over her shoulder.

“I think I will.”

My sister’s act of protest turned into a movement among her peers, and the message spread to more youth and then their parents, and now basically everyone who has a phone or TV in their home and has seen the stories. While I don’t love that the photo of me and Wyatt keeps coming up when people talk about how my sister’s business started, I do admire what Ellie decided to do with the attention. She’s donating half of everything she makes to a shelter in Southern Arizona that helps women leaving domestic violence circumstances to find work, housing, and healthcare. My mom is making her put the rest in a savings account. Ellie protested a little, but I reminded her that I was a pancake waitress for two summers to “build character.”

“Dad’s got the game on. Kick-off is in a few minutes if you want to take a break. I can help her finish this up,” my mom says, holding out a hand to help me up from the ottoman I pushed into the small room to avoid sitting on the floor.

“Thanks,” I say, gripping my mom’s hand tightly as I work my way to a stand. Before I take a single step, though, my abdomen spasms and a lightning rod of pain shoots down the backs of my legs and up into my spine.

“Oh, shit,” I groan, doubling over.

My mom scrambles to brace me as I find my way back to the ottoman, sitting down but keeping my legs out in front of me to stretch out my body.

“Mom,” I gasp, a new wave shooting through me. I cringe and crumple at the same time.

“Reed! Call nine-one-one!” my mom shouts, her hand clutching mine as I hold on to her so I don’t pass out. My dad rushes in then starts dialing the moment he sees me doubled over in pain.

“It’s okay. You might be in labor, Peyt. But it’s okay. You’re okay.”

My mom’s calm voice is normally helpful, but I’m barely thirty-two weeks along. This isn’t the right time. Wyatt is supposed to be home for this. Instead, he’s on a sideline, in Portland. My face burns, and tears blur my vision.

“It hurts, Mom. It hur—ahhhh!”I tuck my chin and squeeze my eyes shut, holding my breath as every beat of my heart throbs inside of me.

“Honey, we need to get you out of this room. Not far. But let’s get you out of this room.”

“I can’t,” I plead, shaking my head violently.

“Peyt? What’s wrong?” My sister slips past my mom to my side.

“She’s in labor, El. Help me move the ottoman. The fire department is coming,” my mom says.

“Don’t move me. I can’t move. Don’t . . .” I run out of breath and wince with a new sharp pain. My mom and sister takeadvantage of this small window and slide the stool, me along with it, out into the kitchen.

“El, get a cool washcloth. Pull one out of the bottom drawer and run it under cold water for a few seconds,” my mom orders.

My sister dashes the long way around the island twice, and the whole scene makes me laugh.

“It’s not funny. I’m scared,” my sister wails, tears running down her cheeks.

I laugh harder, then abruptly stop when fresh pain hits, turning my chuckle into a deep moan.

“Me, too, El. I’m scared too,” I pant out.

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