“Yeah? Okay, sure. No problem.” Except there are no wheelchairs in sight. Probably a few at the main entrance. But I can’t exactly leave her.

The glass door flies open, a wheelchair barreling toward us. It’s squeaky AF but easily the best thing all day.

Well, second thing.

The first is the person steering.

“Whit, come on. Sit down. I’m gonna get you up there,” Ms. Barrantes says, putting the brakes on.

“Oh my God, I’m so happy to see you,” Whit says, as we help her sit, lifting her feet onto the shiny foot pedestals. “I think the baby’s coming right now, Ms. B.”

“What are you doing back at work already?” I ask her as I unlock the brakes.

Ms. Barrantes spins the chair around. “Just trying to keep busy.” She laughs. “Plus, when I stay home, a certain someone thinks he has to keep me company all day.”

I shrug. “He doesn’t think he has to. He just wants to.”

I run ahead, prop open the glass door, move my feet out of the way as she steers Whit straight in. Ms. Barrantes slaps the elevator button.

Whit groans, her hands squeezing the chair handles, her back slightly arched.

The doors open and we all climb/roll in.

“Whit, I know it’s hard, baby. But try not to push, okay? We’re almost to triage. Just hold on. You’re doing great, Whit. You and your baby are gonna be just fine.”

The elevator chimes, the doors part. Two other nurses waiting on the other side. Whit’s OB, Dr. Stokes, behind them, shaking his hands like pom-poms.

“Let’s go have a baby,” he sings.

I’m not allowed in the delivery room. Well, I guess not allowed isn’t right. More like it’s probably weird to be in the room when your sister is having a baby. I stand beside the door, though.

I hear Whit bringing life into this world.

I hear a baby cry out.

I hear Whit gasp.

I’ve never heard anything more amazing.

Not even close.

2

Whit’s beaming when I enter the room.

“Look who’s heeerrre. It’s your Uncle Jamal.”

With every step toward the bed, fear and joy battle for my brain.

But I see her face and it’s an immediate KO, joy’s hand raised in victory.

It’s true, brown eyes are a dime a dozen, but hers are devastating, like twelve photon torpedoes simultaneously crashing into my heart at close range.

“She’s a girl,” I say. “Called it.”

“You did.”

“She’s the most beautiful human alive, Whit. You did so good. Look what you made. Like, wow. Nothing you do from here on out will ever top this, you know that, right?” I say, laughing.

Whit cracks up. “I wanna argue with you but you’re probably right.”

“Am I allowed to know her name now, or is it still a secret?”