Timothy's POV

Around nine that night, a storm rolled off the mountains, turning the sky a bruised green-gray and rattling the window frames. Penelope had been restless all day, her movements careful and constant as she tried to find a comfortable position that didn't exist. By seven, the book in her lap was just a prop; by eight, her focus had shifted entirely to the timer on her phone, tracking the rhythm of a storm of her own.

"Contractions," she said, when I asked.

"How far apart?" I ...