The Shape of Things Unplanned

Ernest woke before the sun had cleared the eastern ridge.

The room was still steeped in cool blue shadow. He lay entirely motionless, his arm tucked securely beneath Eleanor's shoulders while she slept, her face turned toward his chest, one hand resting flat over his ribs.

He stared at the ceiling beams.

Yesterday, the children they had talked about had been figures in the park—someone else's toddlers chasing ducks, someone else's infant crying on a blanket. They had been ideas.

Now they were a decision.

The thought produced a sudden, cold jolt in his stomach.

A father.