Cleo Onyx knelt on the bathroom floor for the fourth time that morning. She was twelve weeks pregnant with Pope's baby, and she wanted to reach the end of this pregnancy alive. Right now that felt far away. The healer had a name for it: hyperemesis gravidarum. Her mother had suffered the same sickness carrying Cleo. Knowing the name did not stop the vomiting. Nothing stopped the vomiting. She pressed her cheek to the cold tile and shook. Her lips had cracked. She had not kept water down since dawn. Alone, she could not stand long enough to reach the kitchen. She could not fill a glass without dropping it. Pope found her there. He was a teenage boy with dark skin and quick hands, and those hands trembled as he crouched beside her. He had come every day since the test, but caring for someone this sick was hard, and he knew it showed. "Cleo. Hey." He tried to lift her. She gagged, and he froze, unsure. "Tell me what to do." "Water," she whispered. "Small sips. But I can't hold the cup." He brought water. She took one sip and lost it. He wiped her mouth with a cloth and looked scared. He was scared. He kept dropping the washcloth. He forgot to time her sips. Twice he asked her a question she was too weak to answer. His love was real, but love was not medicine, and he was one frightened boy against a sickness that never rested. By noon she had gone gray. Her hands felt cold. When she tried to speak, the words slid apart. Pope pressed his palm to her forehead and felt how far she had slipped. He made the choice he had been afraid to make. He could not do this alone, and neither could she. "I'm getting the healer," he said. "I'm not leaving you like this." He carried her to the couch by the big front windows, the small one sewn from mismatched squares of cloth. He wedged pillows around her so she would not roll off. He set the water and the cloth within her reach. Then he ran. He came back with the healer from the clinic two towns over. She took one look at Cleo's gray face and dry lips and set down her bag. "She's dangerously dehydrated," the healer said. "This is too much for either of you to manage at home." She worked fast, feeding Cleo slow spoons of a salted broth, watching each one settle. The worst of the retching eased. Color crept back into Cleo's face. The healer sat back. "She'll keep this down. But the sickness won't pass on its own. She needs daily care and fluids I bring. She can't be left alone again." Pope held Cleo's hand. She was breathing slow and even now. The immediate danger had broken. But the healer's words hung in the room. Cleo could not get through this pregnancy on her own, and Pope could not carry it by himself.

The healer left before dark. Cleo lay on the patchwork couch by the tall front windows, wrapped in blankets. Pope sat on the floor beside her. He had not left her side since he ran for help. He held her hand and watched her breathe. She had lied to him once, and the lie sat in her chest like a stone. She had to move it. "Pope," she said. Her voice cracked. "I need to tell you something." He leaned close. "Don't talk if it hurts." "It's not twelve weeks." She made herself look at him. "I said twelve. I only just found out. It's early, Pope. Way earlier than that." His hand went still in hers. She braced for the anger. She had counted on the number to comfort him, to make the sickness feel almost over. Twelve weeks sounded like the end of a hard road. The truth was they stood at the start of it. "Why?" he asked. It came out soft, not sharp. "Because you were scared." Tears slid down into her hair. "You kept dropping the cloth. Your hands shook. I thought if you believed it would stop soon, you could get through it. I didn't want to scare you more." Pope was quiet. She waited for him to pull his hand back. He didn't. He looked at her cracked lips and her thin gray face, and something in him settled. "You lied so I'd be less afraid," he said. "You were the sick one, and you were trying to protect me." "Yes." He pressed her hand to his mouth. "I'm not mad." His voice was steady now. "You feel terrible. I saw it. I don't need a number. I'm not going anywhere." She cried harder, and it hurt her sore stomach, but the stone in her chest was gone. "It'll be long," she whispered. "Months. The healer comes every day. I can't be alone." "Then you won't be." He wiped her face with the cloth, and this time his hands did not shake. "I'll stay here. In this house. Every day." Cleo watched him say it and knew he meant it. The lie was over. So was the pretending that this would be quick. They both saw the whole road now, and Pope had chosen to walk it with her. But choosing was not the same as being able. Pope was a teenage boy. He had no money of his own, no way to feed them both for months, no plan for how a boy stays put while the world expects him somewhere else. He held her hand in the dark house, brave and certain, and Cleo felt the next hard question rise. Staying meant he needed a way to stay. Neither of them had one yet.

Morning light filled the tall windows. Pope had slept on the floor by the patchwork couch. He rose stiff and quiet, careful not to wake Cleo. He had to leave soon. His father's restaurant opened early, and Pope worked the morning shift. That work paid for their food. He could not skip it. He went to the kitchen to make her breakfast before he left. Cleo woke to the smell of toast. Her stomach rolled. She sat up too fast. The room tilted. She swung her feet down, thinking she could reach the bathroom before the sickness won. She stood. Her legs shook. Then it came all at once. She threw up on the floor, a hot rush she could not stop. The dizziness swallowed her. The windows spun bright and white. Her knees folded, and she dropped. "Cleo!" Pope came running. The plate hit the counter. He knelt over her, both hands on her face. "Cleo, wake up. Please." Her eyes opened. The ceiling swam, then held still. Pope's scared face filled her sight. "I'm here," he said. "I've got you." "Bathroom," she whispered. "Now." He lifted her against his chest and half carried her down the hall. He got her onto the toilet just in time. The cramps twisted low and sharp. The diarrhea came in painful waves. Cleo bent forward and gripped his arm. Pope did not flinch. He rubbed slow circles on her back. "You're okay," he said. "Take your time. I'm not going anywhere." He held her until the shaking passed and her breathing slowed. When it was over, he wiped her face with a cool cloth. He would not let go. "I'm not leaving you like this," he said. "I'll tell my dad I can't come in." Cleo shook her head. Her voice was thin but firm. "No. We need that job. We need the money." She pressed his hand. "Call Sarah Seaglass. Ask her to sit with me." Pope hesitated. Sarah lived two doors down, a broad woman who had raised six children and buried a husband. She had brought them soup twice already, always leaving with a nod instead of a goodbye. "She'll come," Cleo said. "You know she will." Pope carried her back to the couch and made the call. Twenty minutes later Sarah let herself in without knocking. She took one look at the mess on the floor and rolled up her sleeves. "Go on to work, boy," she told Pope. "I've cleaned worse than this before breakfast." Pope kissed Cleo's forehead. "I'll come straight back after my shift." He grabbed his jacket and ran. Cleo watched the door shut behind him. Sarah pulled a chair beside the couch and set a bucket within reach. For the first time, Cleo saw how they would do this. Pope would work. Someone would sit. The road was still long, but now it had a shape she could walk.