He came down the aisle and knelt beside my seat. His name was Joaquin. He had warm brown eyes and very steady hands. He put two fingers on my wrist, timed my breathing, and asked me questions in a calm, low voice. I think now he was doing it to keep me from panicking.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Callie. Callie Dawson. Well, Whitacre. It used to be Whitacre.”
“And when’s your birthday, Callie?”
“March third.”
His hands went still on my wrist.
Just for a second. Barely long enough to notice. His eyes flicked to my face and stayed there, searching it, like he was looking for something.
Then another contraction hit, and he was all business again.
“Ma’am,” he said quietly. “You’re in labor. And this baby isn’t going to wait.”
“What? I’ve still got six weeks!”
“I know,” he said. “But she doesn’t.”
The captain diverted us toward the nearest airport with a hospital. Forty minutes away. My daughter decided forty minutes was too long.
