Owen had told him that love was the one thing in the world that did not become smaller when it was shared. Caleb had thought about that, then asked whether it meant Drew could love the baby and still help him finish their model spaceship.

“That is exactly what it means,” Owen had answered.

He had not been as certain about the spaceship. Drew was hopeless with glue.

Owen rinsed his mug and stepped into the garage. His pickup sat beside a workbench crowded with tools arranged in an order that looked chaotic to other people and made perfect sense to him. The truck was eleven years old, gray, with rust starting around the rear wheel wells. A first-aid kit lived beneath the passenger seat. A flashlight, two bottles of water, and a wool blanket rode behind the cab.

He checked the tire pressure without thinking about why. He did the same thing before long drives and short drives, before a school pickup and before a trip to the hardware store. Twenty-two years in the Army had left habits that persisted long after the uniform was folded away.

He caught himself checking the supplies and stopped. It was a holiday. The most demanding thing on the schedule was likely to be answering questions about whether fireworks could explode underwater.

He collected Caleb from Megan and Drew’s house at eight. Drew opened the door with car keys in one hand and a half-eaten granola bar in the other.

“She’s going to kill me,” Drew said.

“Not until after the baby arrives,” Owen replied. “She’ll want a witness.”

Megan was seated at the edge of the couch, breathing carefully. She managed a tired smile when she saw her father. Owen kissed the top of her head. He did not ask whether she was frightened. He remembered her first labor, the way questions had become a burden when all she wanted was a familiar person to be calm.

Caleb arrived with a backpack almost as large as his torso. It held a water bottle, a sketchbook, three toy dinosaurs, and a folded piece of construction paper labeled WELCOME BABY in blue marker.

“Grandpa,” he said, “can babies hear fireworks?”

“Probably. But she might be more interested in eating.”

“Will she know my voice?”

“She might. You’ve been talking at her through your mother’s stomach for months.”

“That’s different. There was a wall.”

Owen considered the argument. “Fair point.”

Megan caught his wrist as he turned to leave. She looked at him with the blunt, searching expression Ellen had passed down to her.

“Dad, just keep him distracted, okay? He gets quiet when he’s worried.”