Danilo
The clinic smelled like antiseptic and peppermint.
Dr. Otto's office in Bloom hadn't changed in 30 years. Same framed photos of cows on the wall. Same squeaky vinyl chairs. Same German magazines from 2018 stacked on the coffee table that no one ever read.
Dr. Otto himself hadn't changed either. White hair, sharp eyes, and hands that had delivered half of Texas. He'd helped Pa bring me, Benecio, and Bunky into the world. He'd sat in the barn with a cup of coffee while Pai paced with Daniel. He was practically family.
"Danilo. Kolli. Setzt euch." (German: "Danilo. Kolli. Sit down.") He pulled both of us into a hug. One arm around me, one around Kolli. "Ich habe auf diesen Anruf gewartet." ("I've been waiting for this call.")
Kolli looked nervous. I could see it in the way he kept adjusting the hem of his shirt. We'd agreed on the way here: transvaginal ultrasound. At 8 weeks, it was the only way to be sure. To hear it.
My stomach was in knots.
