Sera at thirty-two weeks was a sight.
Not unflattering — the opposite. She had the specific glow that some women got and others didn't, and she had gotten it, and she walked into my hospital for a routine check with Draven half a step behind her carrying what appeared to be three separate bags of things she might need.
"What's in the bags," I said.
"Snacks," Draven said. "Water. A blanket. The spreadsheet, printed, in case she wants to review names during the wait."
"You printed the baby name spreadsheet," I said.
"Forty-three entries now," he said. "I added two this morning."
"Draven."
"The aural weight calculation needed refinement," he said.
Sera, settling onto the exam table, said: "He added 'Reva' as a joke entry and then took it extremely seriously for ten minutes before admi
