I lay propped against the pillows, my doctor-ordered bed rest starting on a Tuesday. Dr. Evans had been very clear about the pressure on my cervix with three babies, warning me that even a trip to the kitchen was a risk.
“The doctor said strict bed rest, Daniel. I am not even supposed to stand up to make toast.”
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his favorite heavy brass pen, the one that wrote only in a distinct royal blue ink. He uncapped it with a metallic click and began filling out the paper insert of the luggage tag.
“The company paid for this, Helen,” he said, his voice dropping into that smooth, reasonable tone he used with difficult clients. “If I turn down a four-month cruise, it looks like I do not care about the regional sales division.”
I watched the royal blue ink glide across the white card of the tag, spelling out his name in thick, perfect loops. He zipped the suitcase shut, the metal teeth grinding together.
