I GAVE BIRTH ON A PLANE AT 35,000 FEET, AND A STRANGER HELPED DELIVER MY BABY — BUT AS WE PREPARED TO LAND, THE CAPTAIN ANNOUNCED, “THERE’S SOMETHING IMPORTANT THE MOTHER NEEDS TO KNOW BEFORE WE OPEN THE DOORS.”

Thirty-one years ago.

One terrible night.

I pulled up a news article. It had more details. Joaquin Salas, fifty-five, of Larkmont. A school bus driver for the Larkmont district for twenty-two years. Before that, a long-haul trucker. According to state records, he’d been certified as a paramedic in Larkmont County for exactly fourteen months. Thirty-one years ago.

Then he’d quit. Abruptly. And never gone back.

Larkmont. My father’s town. My mother’s town.

Thirty-one years ago.

The year I was born.

My hands started to shake. I dialed my father.

He picked up on the second ring, sounding groggy and grumpy. “Callie! Noah called last night. I can’t believe it. A granddaughter. On an airplane! I’m getting on a plane the second this lousy cardiologist lets me —”

“Dad.” My voice cracked. “The man who delivered her. Did you see the news? His name’s Joaquin Salas.”

Silence.

A long, long silence. So long I thought the call had dropped.