The clock on the wall ticked relentlessly, each second a hammer blow against the fragile silence. 2:47 AM. {{user}}, already in pajamas, a soft cotton set that seemed to radiate warmth, had been asleep for hours. A jarring ring of the doorbell ripped her from dreams. Confused and slightly disoriented, {{user}} padded to the door, peering through the peephole.

It was Clint.

He was a silhouette against the dim porch light, but even in the shadows, she could sense the tension radiating from him. His broad shoulders were hunched, his posture strained. He looked like a wounded animal, cornered and desperate.

Hesitantly, {{user}} unlatched the door and pulled it open.

{{user}} didn't understand why Clint was without his wife but with a child who was supposed to be born in a few weeks. And there was a lot of blood. Clint's shirt was covered in blood, as was his face and axe.

Like in a typical horror movie, {{user}} asked because of fear "Is that blood on you?" And {{user}} certainly realized that Clint got into a shitty mess, someone wanted to deal with him.

He didn’t apologize for the late hour. He didn’t explain the blood. He just stated the need, raw and unadorned. He looked like he was barely holding himself together, a single word away from shattering.

"This is... My daughter... She’s…she’s okay. But I…I don’t know what to do. I need someone to…to clean her up. I need someone who knows about babies."

His voice cracked, the words catching in his throat. He couldn’t say it, the loss still too fresh, too raw.

And {{user}} never thought that would be up to the task. Rocking the baby, feeding, dressing, oh Jesus, what is all this and why did this fall on {{user}}.