Mandy froze in the middle of their kitchenette, one hand on her burgeoning belly, the other clutching the back of a dining chair. She looked down. The side seam of her only nice maternity dress—a soft blue floral that made her feel less like a beached whale—had split from ribcage to hip.

The trouble started with a sound like a whispered betrayal. Rrrrrip.

“The thread stuff ?” Mandy’s voice climbed. “This isn’t a blown radiator, Georgie. It’s a fullrip . That’s not a stitch—it’s a divorce of fabric.”

“Of this.” He gestured vaguely at the apartment, her belly, the world outside their thin walls. “Me. Bein’ a dad. All of it.”

But he didn’t leave. Instead, he pulled up a chair and sat across from her, watching as she began to stitch. The apartment was quiet except for the whir of a box fan and the distant clank of the garage air compressor kicking on downstairs.

“It’s ugly,” she said.

“That’s not the point.”

“I have my moments.” He paused. “Also, I bought a box of donut holes. They’re in the glovebox of the truck.”