Page 74 of Deadly Force
I shift my weight and scan the hallway again. It’s still empty, but it won’t stay that way. The nurse will come looking soon.
I have five minutes, maybe less.
But I have to try. For Eliza.
Caleb
I glance down at the clipboard in my hands. Forms asking for insurance information, emergency contacts, medical history. Questions that assume this is routine. Normal. As if there's a frequent customer discount for this sort of thing.
I scribble fake info across half of it before setting the pen down. I can't bring myself to write one more lie. Not about this. Not here.
A woman two seats over flips through a magazine without looking at it—some celebrity gossip rag with a torn cover. Nobody makes eye contact. Everyone is pretending not to be here.
And me? I'm the guy sitting here looking like I brought his girlfriend in for a quiet fix. Like I’m the kind of man who’d lean in and whisper,“It’s your choice, babe, but I’ll pay for it.”
My gut twists. I’d rather catch a round than be that kind of coward.
The muzak overhead plays something that might have been a hymn once, before they stripped outanything that could offend. Sanitized melody for a sanitized place. Even the music here is lying about what it is.
A couple walks in through the front door, barely out of high school by the looks of them. The girl's eyes are red-rimmed, shoulders hunched like she's trying to disappear into herself. The boy's got his arm around her, but his face is blank. Shut down. Maybe he's the supportive type who'll hold her hand through the whole thing. Or maybe he's just relieved someone else is solving his problem.
I want to stand up. Walk over there. Tell them there are other options. Tell them about the pregnancy centers just ten miles from here where people will help them figure out how to make this work, with baby clothes and formula and job training and actual support that doesn't end with death.
But I can't. Because I'm here pretending to be someone else entirely.
The receptionist calls another name. "Jessica?" A woman in her thirties rises from the corner chair, moving like she's walking through water. Her husband—I assume it's her husband from the wedding ring—doesn't get up. Just watches her disappear down that hallway with the expression of a man who's already grieving.
How many fathers have sat in these chairs? How many have wanted to saywaitbut didn't know how? How many drove home afterward wondering if theyjust became accessories to something they'd spend the rest of their lives trying not to think about?
The forms on my lap feel heavier now. Like they're weighted with all the signatures that came before mine. All the consent forms and insurance waivers and medical releases that turned the most vulnerable moment in someone's life into paperwork.
I’ve never pictured myself as a father. Not seriously. Not in a way that ever felt real.
But now, sitting here in this bland, over-lit room that smells like antiseptic and old paper, I let the thought in.
What if it was Brooke?
What if she looked at me one day, hand resting on her stomach, and told me she was carrying my child?
A life knit together by the same God who made both of us. Not an accident. Not a complication. My own flesh and blood.
The husband glances over and gives me a slow nod. Solidarity. Like we’re just a couple of men waiting for our wives outside a nail salon in the mall.
I can’t acknowledge him.
I'm too busy praying for God to forgive us for calling thishealthcare.
Brooke
I move straight to the cabinet, heart thrashing against my ribs as I hunt for what I need.
Drawer two slides open with a metallic whisper.
I flip fast, my fingers trembling slightly as adrenaline floods my system. No time to second-guess. No time for careful examination. Each tabbed folder has a name, a start date, some scratched notes in different handwriting. The papers rustle too loudly in the quiet room. My breathing sounds like a freight train.
I speed-read the names of staff as they fly past until I reach the M’s.
My heart stutters when I see it.
