Turn 148 of 228

Text Diane about what happens when the division heads return to work with three newborns

The hospital room is quiet. Marcus is asleep in the chair — 760 pounds of naked flesh tipped back, mouth open, the yellow nails resting on his belly. The triplets are in the bassinets, three perfect bundles, the heartbeats steady on the monitor. Lena's phone is on the bed. The screen is bright. The yellow nails tap.

"Diane."

The response comes in nine seconds. Diane is in the hallway — 905 pounds, naked, barefoot, unwashed, the beard, the hospital floor under her bare feet, probably standing because the hospital chairs won't hold her.

"How are they?" The text is fast. The thumbs are fast.

"Perfect. All three. APGAR nine nine ten. Seven-six, six-fourteen, eight-one." Lena sends it. Then: "Billy Jo is already writing the section. Reproductive viability. Twelve pages."

"Of course she is." Then: "Are you okay?"

Lena reads the text three times. The yellow nails on the screen. The triplets breathing in the bassinets. The 1,050-pound body in the hospital bed. The hum — three heartbeats now, warm and patient.

"I'm comfortable," she types. Then deletes it. Then types: "I'm thinking about the division."

"So am I," Diane responds. "I've been standing in this hallway for an hour thinking about it."

Lena shifts in the bed. The belly is softer now — deflated but still enormous, the skin loose, the stretch marks bright. The body hair. The yellow nails. The unwashed skin against the hospital sheets.

"What happens when we go back," Lena types. "Three newborns. A national division. Two naked division heads who don't fit in chairs."

The response takes longer this time. Forty seconds. A minute. Then:

"I don't know. I've been running numbers in my head since the delivery. The STREAM integration is stable — the model runs itself now. The branches don't need daily oversight. But corporate will want visibility. Henderson's people will want meetings. And the NIH response has been sitting since January — Billy Jo sent it but we haven't heard back. If they follow up while you have three newborns, the conversation changes."

"How."

"A case study about weight gain and health anomalies is one thing. A case study about reproductive viability under those conditions is something else. The triplets are evidence now. They're data points. If the NIH sees the pregnancy section before Billy Jo controls how it's framed — if they go around her — this becomes a federal inquiry with three infants attached to it."

Lena looks at the bassinets. Three girls. Three heartbeats. The monitor beeps steady.

"What do you want to do," she types.

"I want to come in there and sit with you and figure it out. But I also want to go home and think. I've been standing in this hallway for an hour and my feet hurt and I hate that my feet hurt because they didn't hurt three months ago and I don't know what that means yet."

Lena almost smiles. The yellow nails.

"Go home," she types. "Think. Come Tuesday to the apartment. Bring Billy Jo. We'll figure out the division and the triplets and the NIH and whatever comes next."

"Tuesday," Diane responds. Then: "Congratulations, Lena. You're a mother. The word is still spreading."

Lena puts the phone down. The triplets breathe. Marcus snores. The hum is warm. The hum is three heartbeats. The hum is patient. The hum is *more.*