Time seemed to bend—ten minutes, maybe forty—John had no idea how long he paced the hallway until a nurse stepped out and gave a small, tired smile. “You can come in now.” John followed her, heart in his throat. The door opened to a bright room. Machines beeped quietly.
Catherine lay against white pillows, skin flushed, eyes glassy but clear. In the crook of her arm was a tiny bundle wrapped in hospital cloth. “Her name is Maren,” she whispered. “It comes from marinus—Latin for ‘of the sea.’”