“He will realize his mistake soon,” I said, looking out at the black pines. “He was just stressed about the business audit.”
Keith kept his eyes on the yellow light of the high beams bouncing off the snowbanks.
“A closed door does not open itself from the outside,” Keith said.
“We had a disagreement about the baby’s schedule,” I said, twisting the silver band on my finger.
“A road doesn’t care about disagreements,” Keith said, his monotone voice barely rising above the rattle of the grader’s engine. “It just gets covered.”
“He will come looking for us once he calms down,” I said.
Keith did not reply, his large hands steady on the steering wheel as we rumbled down the steep grade toward the valley floor.
The Silverton Clinic was a low brick building next to the sheriff’s office. Under the bright white lamps of the waiting room, a nurse in green scrubs took my baby from my arms.
She laid him on a stainless steel scale and began unwrapping the fleece layers
“His temperature is ninety-six point four,” the nurse said, her fingers moving quickly over his small chest.
She placed a yellow card on the counter next to me.
“We need to keep him under the warming lights for an hour,” she said.
I sat on the vinyl chair, my knees stiff, watching the blue lights of the incubator flicker on.
Keith stood near the glass entrance doors, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets.
“I have to finish the pass,” Keith said, nodding toward the window.
“Thank you,” I said.
He turned and walked out, his heavy boots squeaking on the linoleum floor.
The nurse returned with a warm blanket and draped it over my shoulders.
“Do you have a place to stay tonight, Ellen?” she asked.
“We are renting the Miller cabin up on the ridge,” I said.
The nurse paused, her hand resting on the back of my chair.
“The Miller place was rented to a corporate account out of Denver,” she said.
“My partner arranged it through his firm,” I said.
