“We heard you’re good with emergencies,” the hiring manager said.

Marian had her transplant on December 9th.

Her sister’s kidney started working before they even closed her up.

When she woke up, the first thing she said was, “Bernard, you smell like a baby.”

I’d been holding little Bernard in the waiting room all morning. Danae brought him so I wouldn’t be alone.

Terrell came home from deployment in February. He shook my hand at the airport for so long that people started staring.

“Sir,” he said, “you were there when I couldn’t be.”

Last month, we celebrated little Bernard’s first birthday in our backyard.

He’s chubby and loud and walks like a tiny drunk sailor.

Marian sat in a lawn chair in the sun, healthy for the first time in years, and watched him try to eat my shoelace.

“You know,” she said to me, “you never did deliver anybody else’s baby.”

“Once was enough,” I said.

Little Bernard grabbed my finger and wouldn’t let go.

THE END.