Thomas Reed pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to massage away the tension knotting his skull.
The hallway outside Delivery Room 217 smelled of harsh bleach and stale coffee.
He'd been camping on that threadbare chair for 24 hours, alternating between staring at the blank wall and pacing eighty feet of linoleum in restless loops.
Now, after another failed nap on the shoulder of his worn leather jacket, his bones ached and his patience frayed.
He glanced at the photograph tacked to the bulletin board beside the door: a summer afternoon on the porch of their farmhouse, Rebecca's laughter caught mid-tilt of her head and Sarah's small hand clinging to her mother's skirt.
In that picture, Sarah's eyes shone with a carefree delight that Thomas missed. His boot scraped the floor as he crossed to a small basin, splashing cold water onto his face.
The fluorescent bulb above buzzed, casting a harsh glare on the rippling reflection in the steel basin.
A distant murmur reached him, clipped and professional voices from behind the closed door.
Thomas took a breath and wiped his palms on the jeans that had long ago lost their newness, and knocked softly.
"Becca?" he called with his voice rough. His heart jacked up in his chest when the door cracked open.
A nurse, mid-thirties with her hair tied back in a practical ponytail peered out. Her eyes were kind but guarded. "Mr. Reed," she said with a voice low enough that only Thomas could hear. "It looks like she's in transition. You might want to slip in quietly."
Thomas nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat then he entered the room.
Inside, the overhead lights felt almost surgical. Rebecca lay on the narrow bed, tops of her shoulders reddened by the stirrups.
Her dark hair was moist with sweat, plastered against the pillow in locks. She had removed her wedding band, and Thomas's chest tightened at the sight of her naked finger lay empty. Her knuckles gripped the edges of the sheet until the knuckles themselves whitened.
He moved to her side, kneeling so his voice would be less deafening. "How are you holding up?" he asked.
Rebecca opened her eyes with exhaustion pooled in their depths. She managed a weak half-smile. "Every contraction feels like getting hit with a freight train," she rasped. "But I'm here."
Her resolve was familiar: the same steel that had driven her through grueling research sessions in their makeshift study, the same determination she'd shown when they tracked that last wendigo through the woods.
Thomas squeezed her hand, careful not to jostle the IV line.
The midwife's calm voice over the monitor counted down Rebecca's next contraction. Thomas watched the seconds tick away on the wall clock.
Then, just as Rebecca arched forward, the lights in the room dimmed for a second.
A low, resonant buzz trembled through the floor as if the hospital itself had inhaled and paused.
Thomas's breath hitched.
Rebecca froze mid-contraction with breath caught in her throat. She blinked and her gaze flicked toward the narrow window at the foot of the bed.
Outside for the briefest instant, the sky turned red like embers then snapped back to the dull Kansas night.
Her brow furrowed and she turned her head slowly toward Thomas. "Did… did you see that?" she whispered.
Thomas swallowed hard. "Yeah." He rose and crossed to the window, peering through the rain-streaked glass. The blackness beyond was empty, there was only streetlights haloed by thin mist and the distant noise of late-night traffic. Nothing to explain thunderless flickers or floorboard tremors.
Before he could say more, Rebecca's next wave came. This one hit harder and her body convulsed with the force of it.
Thomas hurried back, pressing his free hand against her back and grounding her against the surge.
They rode the wave together. He counted each second between her breaths, murmuring reminders: breathe out, breathe with me.
At some point, her grip loosened and she sagged back clearly tired.
The room fell silent. Even the monitor's beeps softened.
Thomas, cautious, looked up at the clock: it was three minutes since the last surge. He reached for Rebecca's hand. "You're doing incredible," he said with a voice barely above a whisper.
Her lips twitched close to a smile. "We're almost there," she croaked.
The midwife leaned in, checking charts and adjusting Rebecca's position. Thomas slid back down to his knee, unwilling to let go of Rebecca's hand.
Then; birth.
It wasn't cinematic. There was no grand soundtrack. Just a new raw cry cutting through the hush.
Rebecca exhaled, the sound half a sob and half a sigh, as the baby's first breath filled the room.
The midwife lifted the infant into view and Thomas's heart seized.
The baby's dark hair was slick against his forehead; his cheeks were mottled pink.
And in the soft glow of the overhead lamp, Thomas noticed a faint silvery sheen on the blanket across the infant's chest, it was an ephemeral pattern, like the afterimage of a symbol pressed into fabric.
Thomas leaned closer.
The midwife painted a soft coo at the baby's ear.
Rebecca's eyes fluttered open, and she followed Thomas's gaze to the blanket.
"I… I thought I saw something," Thomas said with a throat tight. "A design or something."
Rebecca tried to sit up, wincing. "Maybe they printed it on the blanket?" she suggested with her voice hoarse.
Thomas shook his head slowly. The shimmer was gone now and the blanket lay smooth and ordinary. He reached out, brushing a finger lightly over that spot, it was smooth cotton with no raised ink.
The midwife wrapped the baby and handed him to Thomas. The infant's small hand found Thomas's finger, squeezing with surprising strength.
Thomas watched Rebecca's chest rise and fall.
The tremor in the floor had vanished, the lights were steady and the world resumed its hum. Outside, the rain tapered off and cars rolled by.
He lifted the baby close, pressing him to his chest so skin met skin.
the boy, who he hadn't named aloud yet, nuzzled while settling into a quiet pattern of breathing. Thomas closed his eyes, feeling each exhale as if it anchored them both.
The nurse peeked in, offering a fresh blanket and Thomas nodded gratefully.
And hour by hour, the night was ending and dawn would soon appear into the sky.
Thomas straightened carefully not to disturb the swaddled warmth in his arms.
He stepped to the doorway, pausing under the pale green exit sign and the corridor's noise greeting him.
He glanced at the clock: almost four a.m.
He leaned back against the wall, glancing down at the baby.
His name came to him, unbidden and right.
"Welcome to the world, Jonah," Thomas breathed.