June – July 1993 · Medford, Texas
The highway back to Medford shimmered in the distance like it always did when the heat got bored.
Stephen rode with his shoulder against the passenger door, window cracked enough to let in air that smelled like hot dirt and asphalt. The truck's AC blew hard and never caught up. The vent rattled on bumps. The seatbelt pressed his collarbone every time the road shifted.
Dad drove with his eyes forward, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. The radio stayed low—mostly static, a song fading in and out depending on what patch of nothing they were passing.
They went quiet for long stretches. Not tense. Just quiet the way people get when they've said most of what matters over years instead of minutes.
After a while, Dad said, "Your brother says she smiles now."
Stephen's answer came fast. "Reflex or deliberate?"
Dad smirked without looking over. "You'll have to see for yourself, professor."
Stephen watched fence lines and hay bales slide past. The closer they got, the less his brain wanted to run ahead. The counting slowed down. The tightness in his shoulders eased before he noticed it easing.
When they turned onto their street, the leaning mailbox was still there, crooked like nobody ever bothered to fix it. Meemaw's porch light was on even though the sun was still up. She always left it on.
Mom opened the front door before they finished parking.
"He's here!" she called inside like an announcement was required. She came down the steps fast, apron still on, flour on her hands, and hugged Stephen tight enough to make him grunt.
"You're skinny," she said into his hair. "Do they feed you up there?"
"I eat," Stephen said.
Mom pulled back and looked at his face like she was checking for injuries. Then she grabbed his wrist and tugged him toward the truck again like she didn't trust time.
"Come on," she said. "We're going across town. Mandy's folks. They've been waiting."
Across town meant passing the parts of Medford that hadn't changed. The feed store. The sun-faded soda posters at the gas station. The stretch of road where people sped up the second they thought no one important was watching.
Mom talked the whole way—baby updates in quick bursts, who brought what, who cried, who didn't sleep, who kept "hovering," delivered like she was reading from a list she didn't want to lose.
Dad listened. Stephen listened too, but he was watching the edges of things—new car seats in the back of a neighbor's SUV, the way everyone's yards looked trimmed like company was expected, the heat sitting over the pavement like a lid.
Mandy's parents' house was on the far side of town. Big shade tree in front. Two cars in the driveway and one half on the lawn because there wasn't room. The porch steps looked recently swept. The door opened before Mom knocked, like the house had been watching the window.
Inside, the living room smelled like baby powder and clean laundry. The AC ran nonstop, cool air rolling against Stephen's arms as soon as he stepped through. People were everywhere—voices in the kitchen, a laugh that cut off fast, the sound of someone shushing someone else.
Mandy sat on the couch with her hair pulled back. Her face looked tired in a way she wasn't trying to hide. Her eyes were bright anyway. A blanket lay in her arms, bundled tight.
Georgie stood near the couch like he didn't trust himself to sit. His hands kept opening and closing, and he kept checking Mandy's face like he was making sure she was still okay every few seconds.
When he saw Stephen, Georgie's grin flashed, then wobbled.
"Hey, little brother," Georgie said, voice cracking.
Stephen stepped closer and looked him in the eye. "Hey, Dad."
Georgie blinked once, then laughed, real. "That's weird."
"It fits," Stephen said.
Georgie's grin stayed, but his eyes flicked to the blanket like it was the only thing in the room that mattered. "This is CeeCee."
Hearing the name out loud changed something. Stephen had heard her cry once on the phone—muffled, distant, swallowed by adults talking over each other. This was different. This was a person in a blanket.
Mandy shifted the bundle carefully, adjusting her hold. Her hands were steady even though her shoulders looked heavy.
"You want to hold her?" Mandy asked.
Stephen hesitated. Small, but real. He didn't step back. He just didn't reach right away.
"I've never—" he started.
"That's fine," Mandy said, simple. "Just support her head."
She leaned forward and guided the baby into his arms. Her fingers showed him where to place his hand, firm but not bossy. Stephen's palm slid under the back of CeeCee's head. Warm. Soft. He felt his forearms tense like he was bracing for impact, even though she weighed almost nothing.
CeeCee blinked slow, eyes unfocused. Her mouth moved once like she was testing a new expression. Then her hand opened and closed around Stephen's finger, and held.
The grip was tiny and serious. The kind of hold that didn't feel like reflex anymore once it settled.
Meemaw stood in the doorway, watching like she'd been waiting for this exact moment. There were tears on her cheeks and she didn't bother wiping them. Her grin was sharp.
"She knows you," Meemaw said. "I told her she's got my name, and that her Uncle Stephen overthinks everything."
Stephen looked down at the baby's fist around his finger. "Seems like she's starting early."
Mandy smiled, tired and amused. "She's got your brother's stubborn and my schedule. Pray for us."
Missy's voice came from behind the couch. "Don't put that on God. That's on Georgie."
Georgie shot her a look. Missy grinned back like she'd won something.
Stephen didn't say much. He just held CeeCee and listened to the room—cabinet doors, footsteps, the scrape of a chair, someone in the kitchen laughing too loud and then getting shushed. It all sounded farther away than it should've. CeeCee's breathing was close. Warm against his forearm. Her pulse was faint, fast, steady.
Eventually Mandy took her back with careful hands, and Stephen's arms felt empty in a way that irritated him.
Later, when the sun dropped and people started drifting toward the porch for air, Meemaw handed Stephen a glass of sweet tea.
The glass sweated in his hand. The porch light buzzed faintly above them. Crickets were already going in the grass. Inside, CeeCee made a short sound—half cry, half complaint—then quieted again.
"You handled her good," Meemaw said, settling into a chair. "Didn't drop her. Didn't quote statistics."
"I almost did," Stephen said. "Quote statistics."
Meemaw laughed. "Progress."
She rocked once, slow. "Babies mess with time," she said. "You look up and an hour's gone. You look down and ten seconds takes forever."
Stephen stared into the yard. The dark was coming in at the edges, the kind that made the porch light look brighter than it should.
"She's got your name," Stephen said.
Meemaw nodded. "Constance," she said, plain. "Didn't think I'd see my name on a birth certificate again."
Stephen didn't answer right away. He listened to the porch boards under shifting feet. Listened to the screen door creak as someone went in, then out again. Listened to the soft rise and fall of voices inside.
"She'll make it hers," Stephen said finally.
Meemaw's mouth softened. "Yeah," she said. "She will."
The screen door creaked and Missy stepped out holding a bottle like it was a trophy.
"She ate two ounces!" Missy announced, loud like it was a world record.
Meemaw's laugh snapped bright. "Good. That's my girl."
Missy pointed the bottle toward Stephen. "You gonna teach her math?"
"When she can count past fingers," Stephen said.
"She already tries," Missy said, dead serious. "Got the fingers part down."
Meemaw chuckled. "Confidence. Must run in the family."
The next morning, sunlight hit the kitchen window early and hard. The room smelled like coffee and pancakes. Mom stood at the stove flipping batter, humming. Dad sat at the table with the paper open but kept glancing toward the counter. Sheldon hovered close enough to be irritating on purpose.
CeeCee lay in a bassinet on the counter, watched like she might vanish if nobody kept eyes on her. She stared at the ceiling fan, tracking it with slow blinks.
"She's locked in," Stephen said.
"She's observing rotational motion," Sheldon said immediately, like he couldn't help himself.
Mom didn't look up. "She's being a baby."
Stephen's mouth twitched. "She can do both."
Sheldon looked offended and pleased at the same time. CeeCee kicked her legs and made a small sound—more air than voice, but it pulled Mom's attention anyway. Mom's face softened without her meaning to.
That afternoon, Georgie found Stephen in the driveway beside Mandy's dad's lawnmower. The mower was tipped on its side, guts showing. The smell of gas and cut grass clung to the air. The concrete was hot through Stephen's shoes. Cicadas screamed from the trees like they were angry about being alive.
Georgie stood with his hands on his hips, eyes on the mower but not really.
"You think I'm doing all right?" Georgie asked, voice quieter than Stephen was used to hearing.
Stephen wiped grease off his fingers with a rag. "As a dad or a human?"
Georgie exhaled. "Either."
"You're here," Stephen said. "You're trying."
Georgie nodded once, like he needed that on paper. "She's perfect," he said.
"I know," Stephen replied.
Georgie laughed, small and shaky. "I keep thinking she's gonna grow up and figure out I didn't know what I was doing."
Stephen didn't rush to comfort him. He looked at Georgie's hands—grease under the nails, knuckles scraped—hands that had never held something this fragile until now.
"You'll learn," Stephen said. "And you'll keep showing up. That's what she'll see."
Georgie stared at him, then looked away, swallowing hard. "Leave it to you," he muttered, "to make being scared sound manageable."
Stephen's mouth lifted slightly. "It is manageable."
That night, Stephen ended up back on the porch with Meemaw again. The porch light buzzed. Inside, the house kept shifting—footsteps, murmurs, a cabinet closing too hard, then a softer voice telling someone to calm down. CeeCee cried once, short and sharp, then quieted when somebody picked her up.
Meemaw sat with a mug of cocoa, hands wrapped around it. She looked tired and happy in the same face.
Stephen sat without talking much. He watched the yard. He listened to the house.
Meemaw glanced at him. "You're doing that thing," she said.
Stephen didn't look over. "What thing."
"The quiet one," Meemaw said. "Where your brain's loud and your mouth isn't."
Stephen's fingers tapped once against his knee, then stopped.
Meemaw leaned back a little, chair creaking. "She won't remember who stood where," she said. "She won't remember what anybody said."
Stephen's throat moved. He still didn't look over.
"But she'll know she was held," Meemaw continued. "She'll know she was wanted. That part sticks."
Inside, the baby made another small noise—less cry, more complaint. Someone soothed her. The sound of it was simple: shushing, a low voice, a creak of floorboards.
Stephen sat there a moment longer, then pulled his notebook onto his knee. He uncapped his pen and wrote:
Some constants are alive.
Some constants have names.
He closed the notebook, stood, and went back inside where the house was warm and loud and new around the edges.
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