Who says yeppers? Only Dr. Mary. I knew for sure she was a wild animal when she was off with her boyfriend. Had to be a flipside there.

The doctor told me everything I wanted to hear. Aubrey was above average in every measurement. I was thrilled, of course. I’m not average. Neither is Sophie. There would have to be a big mistake to find anything average about our daughter.

“She’s perfect, Adam,” Dr. Mary said.

I beamed as I watched Aubrey, who was distracted by a puppy poster overhead.

Just then Dr. Mary’s buzzer went off and she excused herself, leaving the iPad with Sophie’s chart on the little table next to where I was sitting on the stool.

“Training a new nurse today,” she said as the door swooshed closed behind her.

Since she was gone, I did what everyone else in my position would probably do.

I looked at the chart.

The notes were just as she said. I smiled at the mention of “Dad is concerned about her growth, and I indicated she’s ten percent above average.”

Only ten? I wasn’t sure she actually said that. But that was fine.

I didn’t touch the screen. I only read what I could see. At the top were the basics. My name. Sophie’s name. Aubrey’s birthdate. Her blood type.

That was what stopped me.

It said she was AB.

I knew there had to be a mistake. I give blood at work at least once a quarter. More when there is some kind of disaster. One time after a Caribbean tropical storm, I gave until I was sure I was as white as chalk. My type is O negative. I’m a universal donor. I give because it makes me look good at SkyAero: a member of the ten-gallon club. I know it helps people too, but I’d be a liar—and that’s one thing I’m not—if I said anything otherwise. Sophie was type A. I knew that. She gave blood too, though not as much as I do. She didn’t have to prove herself as someone who cares at Starbucks.

In that moment, unless there was some gargantuan mistake, I knew something else. The room closed in on me. Like a total eclipse. A big fucking plastic bag over my head. A black one: one of those triple-thick, black plastic Hefty bags that can hold the weight of a MINI Cooper without tearing. Tight too. I couldn’t breathe.

“Aubrey,” I said to get her attention. She looked at me with a smile.

I saw parts of her then that didn’t belong to me: her nose, the shape of her brow . . . I wondered if they could belong to the DNA of someone else.

I looked at the chart a second time.