“Is this for real?” he asked.

I shook my head, unable to speak.

Weston got behind the wheel, and followed the DHS car and the two police cruisers to the hospital. We were escorted to the lab, and then sat in the waiting room. Weston held my hand. I stared at the white tile floor, unable to speak, or even think. My brain felt stuck, as if it wouldn’t allow me to even explore the possibility of what all this meant.

“Erin Easter,” the tech said. I stood up, and Weston stood up with me.

“Just her, please,” Kay said.

I nodded to Weston and he sat.

The tech led me through the door into a small room with cabinets and a counter top. He gathered a long rubber strap and clear tubes on a silver tray next to me. I looked away, letting him stab me with the needle, feeling him move just slightly as he switched out the tubes. He extracted the needle, placed a cotton swab on the puncture site, and taped it down with a hot pink, sticky material that looked like a piece of ace bandage.

I stepped out to find Weston standing in the waiting room, between Kay and the police officers. “What now?” I asked.

Kay offered a sweet, reassuring grin and handed me her card. “And now we wait. If you need anything at all, call my cell phone. It’s listed on the card. I’ll come by with the results the moment we have them. We put a rush on the order, but they’re sending them off, so it will likely be Wednesday.”

“Oh. I don’t have a . . .”

Weston took the card, looked at the number, and then tapped his phone. “I’ve got it,” he said. He tapped his phone again and waited. Kay’s phone rang, and she dug it from her purse and looked down. “That’s me,” Weston said. “You can reach her at this number.”

Kay and the officers walked in front of us as we headed down the hall toward the parking lot. They backed out before we buckled our seat belts.

“Do you . . . do you think it’s possible? That Gina’s not my . . .” Just saying the words took my breath away, and my mind shut down again. It wouldn’t let me process the possibility.

Weston intertwined his fingers with mine. I don’t know how my luck changed so dramatically, but this had to be an apology straight from God. If Weston hadn’t been sitting next to me, holding my hand with that look of reassurance, I might have broken down.

I think you’re coming home with me, that’s what I think. We’re going to put on sweats, eat junk food, and watch as many movies on demand as we can fit into one night.

My lips curled up. That sounded a lot like what we’d been doing all Spring Break, and that was exactly what I needed. My smile faded. “Should I go home? Talk to Gina?”