Page 256 of Mile High Ruin

So when the doctor says, “He can go home,” I simply stare at her.

“Home?” I ask.

She smiles. “Home.”

Vadim is beside me, holding the baby bag Nadia packed as if it contains state secrets. He listens to the discharge instructions without interrupting once, which might be the clearest proof that fatherhood has changed him.

The nurse goes over feeding schedules, warning signs, medication, temperature checks, follow-up visits, and when to call the doctor. Vadim nods at everything.

“You’re scaring her,” I murmur.

“I’m listening.”

“You listen like you’re about to interrogate the thermometer.”

The nurse hides a smile.

Vadim ignores both of us.

Leonid sleeps through the whole thing in the blue hat Anya picked for him. He’s still small, still too light in my arms compared to the babies I see in advertisements and hospital posters, but his cheeks are fuller now, and when he yawns, his entire face wrinkles with such deep annoyance that I have to smile.

“He looks offended,” I say.

“He’s concentrating,” Vadim replies.

“He’s a baby.”

“He’s still concentrating.”

The nurse says, “That is very normal for new fathers.”

Vadim looks at her. She doesn’t look intimidated. I decide I like her.

Before we leave, Ethan sees Leonid one more time and tells him to grow quickly because his mother needs backup and his father looks like a lot of work. Vadim says that is an unfair assessment. Ethan says it’s an accurate one. I’m too tired and too happy to argue with either of them.

At the private exit, I slow down.

I don’t mean to.

The doors are right there, opening and closing as people move in and out, and outside, one of Vadim’s cars waits near the curb. For weeks, all I wanted was to take my son out of the hospital, but now that the moment is here, I suddenly understand that inside these walls there are nurses and monitors and people who know what to do if something goes wrong.

Outside, he is ours.

Vadim notices the hesitation immediately. “What is it?” he asks.

I adjust Leonid’s blanket even though it’s already fine. “I’m scared.”

He doesn’t tell me not to be.

Good. I might slap him again if he tried.

“So am I,” he says.

I look up at him. “You are?”

“Yes.”

“What are you scared of?”