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We stand there. Hands touching. The scribbled name between us.

CHAPTER 10

GUNTHER

Iwalk out of Cecie’s apartment at midnight with a scribbled-out name burned into my brain and a sudden, heavy weight in my chest that no spreadsheet could quantify. In the old tongue, my grandmother used to say that a first son is a gift from the Plentiful God, a sign of a prosperous future that must be honored with a feast and an offering. I am a man of logic and pocket protectors, but the sight of Orry’s dimple—my dimple—feels like a divine debt I haven't even begun to pay.

Try what, exactly?

Fatherhood. Partnership. Something that resembles a family.

No pressure.

I sit in my car for ten minutes. Hands on the wheel. Engine off. Clarence—my pocket calculator sits on the passenger seat. I pick him up. Press the equals button. Nothing happens. He's been dead for two years. I keep him anyway.

"What do I do?" I ask the cracked screen.

Clarence offers no wisdom.I drive home. Make a list.

Immediate Action Items:

1. Traditional Mandate: Consult my mother regarding the proper feast and offering for the Plentiful God to honor Orry’s safe arrival.

2. Schedule paternity test (for legal/analytical certainty).

3. Purchase age-appropriate developmental toys

4. Update personal insurance to include potential dependent

5. Stop spiraling

Number five gets crossed out. Then rewritten. Then crossed out again.

I don't sleep. I make spreadsheets instead.

Morning comes.I text Cecie at exactly 8:47 a.m. Professional. Respectful. Not at all desperate.

Good morning. Would you be available this week to schedule the test? I can arrange everything if that's easier.

She responds at 9:03.

Thursday work?

Thursday is perfect. I'll handle the details.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

You don't have to do everything yourself, you know.

Type. Delete. Type again.

I know. But I'd like to. If that's okay.

Okay.

One word. It feels like a gift.

I callthe clinic at 9:15. The receptionist sounds bored.