"What happened tonight—"
"I know."
"I mean—" She stopped. The organizing stop of someone who was trying to find the sentence for something that did not have a standard sentence. "I don't know what I mean."
He was quiet.
She could feel his warmth behind her. The warm weight of his presence — the warm air around him that was always two degrees above the ambient temperature of any room he was in, that she had been attributing to the hospital's heating for the last two hours.
"Sleep," he said. Quietly.
She closed her eyes.
Opened them.
"My phone is dead," she said. "I haven't been able to reach Vikram since the parking lot."
Silence.
"I'm sure he's fine," Raven said.
The plain delivery of it.
She closed her eyes again.
Her hand on her belly. The circular motion — the automatic, warm arc.
The baby moved.
The interior flutter. The small, private signal.
She breathed.
The warm room breathed around her.
