My 6-year-old granddaughter phoned me in panic just after midnight. “Mommy says the baby is coming! Help!” I asked, “Where’s daddy?” She answered, “He k!cked mommy’s tummy and left.”…..

“No,” Harry said, making it sound as certain as gravity itself. “Mommy’s tough. She’s going to be fine.”

The EMTs loaded Cassidy into the ambulance, and Harry strapped Lydia into his truck before following the flashing lights through the dark countryside. His speed stayed close to eighty the entire drive, the ambulance’s red glow ahead of him pulling him forward like a lifeline. Every few seconds Lydia sniffled in the back seat, and every few seconds Harry forced himself not to imagine what he would do if Cassidy or the baby did not survive.

Bozeman General’s emergency entrance was chaos under fluorescent lights, sliding doors, rolling stretchers, and urgent voices. Harry carried Lydia inside just as Cassidy disappeared toward surgery. A nurse in blue scrubs stopped him with the calm firmness of someone used to frightened families.

“Sir, you’ll need to wait here. We’ll update you as soon as possible.”

“I want to see the doctor,” Harry said.

“Dr. Martinez is preparing for surgery. She’ll speak with you afterward.”

“Now.”

The word was quiet, but it carried the weight of decades spent giving orders that kept men alive. The nurse studied his face, then Lydia clinging to him, before nodding once.

“Follow me.”

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