Spring came early this year. All the flowers in the garden are blossoming. Cassie is blossoming, with a baby. Our baby.

Yeah. We’re having a baby. It still sounds weird when I say it. Good weird. I never thought I’d see the day. Cassie, literally barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen of her house, our house.

It’s strange to think how much has changed in one year.

Since Damon lost his shit and went on emergency stress leave, right after Cassie’s suicide attempt, everything has changed. I haven’t seen or heard from the guy since the day I found Cassie in the bath, bleeding and drugged from her almost-suicide. Cassie says he still calls and writes her periodically. Sounds like the guy just couldn’t take it anymore, handed in his badge and gun and high-tailed it out of town. Which I didn’t believe at first. Didn’t think he’d ever let Cassie out of his house, out of his sight, out of his clutches.

She was all he had, but now she’s mine, and if he ever comes back, he can’t have her, because she belongs to me.

I keep waiting for him to come back. But it’s been a year now, a year since that night when Cassie ran down to my place in the freezing snow and told me he’d gone for good, that we could finally be together. My parole is almost finished, I’ve got the girl, and now she’s having my child.

We didn’t plan that. About three months after Damon left, as the twin scars on Cassie’s wrists has just started to fade a little, two other lines showed up. Not planned, not ideal, but probably the best thing that had happened for either of us since we were kids. Now she’s nine months pregnant and she should let me cook while she rests, but she insists.

“You want bacon?” Cassie asks, breaking me out of my thoughts as she holds a pan above the dining table. The engraved key she always wears on a chain around her neck glints against her skin, the word Nomad etched into it, an ironic thing for a girl who’s never been anywhere further than Lone Pine, California.

“Do I want bacon,” I echo, pinching her ass. She squeals, dropping a pile of burnt pig slices on my plate, her baby belly brushing against my arm as she heads back to the sink with the empty pan. She sits next to me, her plate looking much healthier than mine, covered in slices of avocado and scrambled eggs and broccoli. Mine looks like a heart attack in comparison, but I’m sure I’ll be working it all off straight after we’re done.

Sure enough, we don’t even make it five minutes before Cassie’s sitting in my lap, her food untouched. “You know,” I say in between her fevered kisses. “If you want my bacon, you could just take it off my plate.”

She laughs, her fingers making quick work of my zipper and boxers. I sink my fingers into her round ass cheeks as she pulls her panties to the side and slides down on me, her eyes rolling back as I sink into her. She’s fucking insatiable now that she’s past the morning sickness, and she’s finally got some weight on her. She looks healthy, instead of gaunt. Her cheeks are rosy instead of pale. And she wants sex all the damn time, so much that I can barely keep up with her. Not that I’m complaining. We have all those years I was gone to make up for. And I fully intend on making it up to her.

After we’re done, with the food and the fucking, I wash up the dishes while Cassie showers. She heads downstairs a few minutes later in an oversized striped sweater and leggings, her hair in a loose knot atop her head.

“You coming?” she asks.

“Coming where?” I ask.

“The midwife appointment,” Cassie says breathlessly. “She’s going to do that stretch and sweep thing, see if we can’t get this baby out. The sex obviously isn’t working.”

“Maybe we’re not trying hard enough,” I reply.

She looks stressed. “I’m having this baby at home,” she says stubbornly. “I’m already three days overdue. If I go much more, they’ll induce me in the hospital and that’s not going to happen.”

I dry my hands on a kitchen towel, heading over to the bottom of the stairs where my pregnant-to-bursting girlfriend is fighting back tears. The fucking hormones, man. I love this girl, but she’s psychotic with the hormones.

“I asked Pike to help me fix the fence this morning,” I say, putting my hands on her belly as I lean down to kiss her forehead. “He’ll be over in a minute.”

She looks like she might murder me, or fall on the floor in a pile of tears. Murder would be easier for me.

“The fence is a quick fix,” I say. “Half an hour, tops. Why don’t I just meet you there? They always make you wait for hours, anyway.”

She weighs her options silently as I watch her face. “C’mon,” I say to her. “You were right. You don’t want the induction unless it’s the absolute last resort.” I rub her back. “I promise I’ll be there before they get all up in your business.”

She chews on her lip. “Okay,” she says. “Okay. But you’ll meet me there, won’t you?”

“I promise,” I say, kissing her again.

She drives off in the new pickup she bought with her mom’s insurance money, a cruel twist of fate that something I did paid for that car. It makes my skin crawl every time I think about it, so I try not to think about it. Cassie says she forgives me. I’m not so sure I forgive myself.

But I have to keep my shit together, and keep sober, and work my ass off because I’m going to be a father in the next week, Cassie’s induction date looming on the calendar like Christmas.

I’m just about to call Pike and ask where the fuck he is when there’s a knock at the door. I open it, expecting Pike, but there’s a very somber looking Chris McCallister standing on the porch instead, looking all official-like in his tan-colored police uniform.

“Chris,” I say, opening the door wider. “Come in, man. How are you?”

“Thanks,” he says, taking off his hat and side-stepping past me. We end up in the kitchen.

“You want coffee?” I ask. “Pot’s still hot.”

He declines, hovering awkwardly on the other side of the counter. I pour one for myself and wonder where Pike is. “Everything okay?” I ask.

Chris puts his hat down on the counter and pulls a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolding it. The air between us develops a heaviness.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, my tone sharp this time.

Chris pushes the piece of paper over to me. “Your last drug test was positive,” he says, unable to meet my gaze. “I haven’t told Sheriff Anderson yet.”

Sheriff Anderson was brought in to replace Damon after he high-tailed it out of town with his fishing rods, a backpack of clothes, and a harried phone call citing extreme stress as the reason for his sudden departure. Sheriff Anderson is exactly the kind of guy you’d expect to be installed in a town like ours — ruddy-faced from drinking, generally useless, and counting down the days until his retirement.

I grab the paper, scanning the words. A lot of it is police speak and codes that I don’t understand, but the words POSITIVE FOR OPIATES stand out against everything.

“This is a mistake,” I say, rage creeping up my chest. “I haven’t taken anything. I don’t even take fucking aspirin!”

I slam my coffee cup down on the counter, and coffee splashes over the sheet of paper. A weird desperation bubbles underneath my skin, like acid eating it away, layer by layer.

“I caught it before it was sent off,” Chris says. “I know Cassie’s about to pop any day now. It must be stressful. Anyone would understand if you felt like you needed something to take the edge off.”

I stare at Chris like he’s fucking stupid. “I. Didn’t. Take. Anything.”

Chris clears his throat. “Well, I’m here to tell you to definitely not take anything in the next week. Like I said, I caught this early. We’ll retest in a week.”

I nod.

“I’ll lose my job if anyone finds out about this,” Chris adds. “I only did this because Cassie’s been through enough shit. She doesn’t need you back in prison while she’s about to give birth.”

“Thanks, man. I appreciate that.” I’m trying to be grateful, but I’m fucking raging. I definitely didn’t take anything. I don’t need to take anything, ironically, for the first time in years. I have Cassie.

“I’m telling you, man, it’s a false positive,” I insist. “Tell me again all the shit that can cause opiates to show up on a test.”

Chris shrugs. “I mean, there are all sorts of things that can give a false positive. Cold and flu tablets. Does Cassie use poppy seeds when she bakes? They show up as opiates if you eat enough of ‘em.”

“Like I said, I don’t take anything. Poppy seeds? Maybe. Shit. I’ll ask her when she gets home.”

Chris looks unconvinced. “You’d have to eat bags of poppy seeds to get a result that high.”

I can see it in his face; he doesn’t believe me. He thinks I’ve sunk back to the lows of my family. And nothing I say is going to change his mind.

“If you really didn’t take anything, you might want to check who you’ve been hanging out with. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen someone slip their friend something in a beer. Your brother?”

“I don’t drink beer!” I exclaim. “I don’t drink anything! I’m a boring fucking mechanic who’s about to be a father. And my brother would never do that, not in a million fucking years. The test is wrong.”

Chris takes the piece of paper back, folds it and slides it into his pocket. He pinches his hat between his fingers and sticks it back on his head, a silent gesture that says, ‘We’re done here.’ “Next week,” he says. “I won’t be able to hide that one if it’s positive. And if you tell anyone I hid this for you, I’ll fuck you up, Bentley.”

I lean against the sink and bite on the insides of my cheeks, waiting for the front door to close as Chris shows himself out. I listen for the sound of his engine, the crunch of gravel where the driveway meets the road, and then I search for fucking poppy seeds.

I don’t find them.

But I do find something else. Packets and packets of pills, very powerful sedatives, hidden under a floorboard in our bedroom. I turn one of the packets over, skimming all of the words, looking for the ingredients. I find the name of the drug – the opiate – and all the blood in my veins turns to ice as I carefully put the pills back, and the floorboard, and get the hell out.

Something is wrong.

Something is very, very wrong.

Pike speeds like a hell demon with me in the passenger seat, but I’m still late to the appointment. Cassie is already trying to shimmy up the bed as a midwife sticks her fingers up her.

I hold her hand as the midwife finishes fingering my girlfriend and snaps off her latex gloves, tossing them in the trash as she says words like “membranes” and “breaking waters.” It’s all so primal, this baby-birthing business. It’s all so messy.

But Cassie seems sated by the reassurance that she’ll most likely go into labor any moment now that her cervix is soft, that she’s already looking a little bit dilated.

She insists we pick up McDonald’s on the way home, giant sodas and hot fries and dirty double cheeseburgers. I want to tear into the food as soon as it’s passed to us in the drive-thru, but Cassie insists we eat on plates at home like civilized humans.

In fact, the more I think about it, Cassie’s very insistent about what we eat and when. I’ve passed it off as pregnancy and her trying to be a good housewife, but after Chris’s bombshell, there’s a deep feeling of worry starting to spread in me.

It’s like a cancer in my blood, snaking down my limbs and around my heart, and by the time we get home I’m reeling.

I’m starting to think about all the nights I’ve passed out on the couch, too tired to even make it up to bed.

All the mornings waking up to Cassie’s sweet face, laughing at me because I fell asleep again.

“Go wash up,” Cassie says, bumping my hip with her belly as she takes the tray of sodas to the kitchen. I wash up in the bathroom, looking at myself in the mirror. You’re crazy, I think to myself. The test is at fault. You’re fucking paranoid.

I head back into the kitchen and the table is all set; our dinners placed neatly in the spots where we always sit. Me at the head of the table and Cassie tucked off to the side, next to me, her back against the wall.

“Damn,” I say, picking up my Coke. “I thought I ordered Sprite. You wanna swap?”

Cassie pulls her Sprite closer to her. “I’m not supposed to have caffeine.”

“Oh,” I say. Perfectly logical explanation. You’re paranoid, the little voice in my head repeats. You’re freaking out because of the baby.

I pick at my food, suddenly not hungry. When Cassie goes to pee, I throw half of my food away and cover it with other trash. Then, I tip my Coke down the sink before taking it back to the table. Cassie reappears just as I’m sitting back in my spot, stopping short when she sees my face.

“Are you okay?” she asks. “You look like there’s something wrong.”

I shake my head. “I think I’ve finally realized that we’re having a baby.”

Her face falls.

“No, no, not like that!” I say, putting my hand up in protest. “I mean the birthing pool and the induction date and the fucking hot water heater. I can’t even blow the fucking thing up.”

“Oh,” she says, visibly relaxing. “Don’t worry. There’s an air pump that blows up the pool. We’ll have hours to get it full. You can use the stove to heat water if we run out.”

“Good,” I say, smiling, trying like fuck to appear like everything is normal. “I just want everything to be perfect for you. I know how much you want to have this baby at home.”

She smiles, sliding on to my lap. She’s so big that her belly sits between us, swollen and ready to burst. “We should go to bed,” she says, her hands on my chest. “Make up for the fact that we won’t be able to do it for like, a month after he or she is born.”

“We should,” I agree.

We go to bed. We do the deed. But unlike this morning, when we were laughing and I was trying not to choke on my mouthful of bacon at the same time, tonight I flip Cassie over, onto her hands and knees, and try to get done as quickly as possible. I’m almost about to come when I remember this is exactly how I saw her and Damon in the window, over a year ago, the night of her mother’s funeral. Before I can stop myself, I come inside Cassie, but with that image in my head, it feels fucking horrific.

Normally I would fall asleep immediately, as soon as my head hits the pillow. But tonight, I’m wide-awake. I feign sleep, aware that Cassie is still very much awake beside me, the glow from her phone illuminating the room slightly. I breathe slowly, I wait it out, and after about forty minutes, Cassie shakes me.

“Leo,” she whispers. “Are you awake?”

I stay “asleep.” She tries to rouse me once more, and I waver. What if she’s having labor pains? What if she needs something?

Before I can think anymore, she’s up and out of bed. It’s probably nothing. She’s so hugely pregnant that she can barely get comfortable, let alone get to sleep with the baby pummeling her with kicks. I listen intently, hearing her shuffling about in the kitchen. She’s always hungry. It’s nothing.

I close my eyes again as I hear her coming up the stairs. I wait for her to get into bed, but her footsteps continue past our bedroom.

And up to the attic.

Huh.

I don’t hear anything else, and she’s only gone for ten or fifteen minutes. I spend the time listening in vain for anything, but it’s dead silence.

When she comes back, she slides into bed. Nothing amiss. She probably went to find something. All her medical records are stored up there, and her old baby clothes. She probably just went to get something. I’m being paranoid.

“Leo?” she shakes me again. I know I should respond, but something in me tells me to stay still. She lies down beside me. The bed starts to rock slightly. Oh my God, is she doing what I think she’s doing? She is. She’s touching herself. My dick immediately gets hard, and I have to shift onto my side to stop it from being mashed into the mattress.

Beside me, Cassie stills. “Leo?”

This time, I groan in response. Moments later, hands are pulling my boxers down, my extremely pregnant girlfriend crawling up on top of me before I can crack an eye open. We don’t speak. She takes my hand and places my fingers against her clit as she guides me inside her, and it’s mere seconds before she’s coming against my touch.