“Honey, how are you?” Lauren rushed over and enveloped her in a morning hug fresh enough to smell like citrusy hair conditioner.

“I can’t believe this is happening.” Christine let herself be held for a moment. “I just can’t believe it.”

“Tell me. I was worried when you didn’t call back.” Lauren let her go, her expression full of love and concern. Her curly hair was still wet from the shower, twisted up into a topknot, and she had on a gauzy smock with a bright pink T-shirt underneath.

“I’m sorry, I should have called. Believe it or not, I fainted.”

“Oh my God.” Lauren’s hand flew to her mouth.

“I know, what a drama queen.” Christine brushed dirt off her seersucker shirtdress, which she knew would get filthy in five minutes, but she’d been too distracted this morning to find the right clothes. She’d showered but hadn’t even bothered to blow-dry the back of her head.

“No, not at all! Here, sit down.” Lauren pulled out a blue plastic chair, which was undersized for students, but Christine sat down anyway, squeezing.

“Then I cried, then we talked and I cried some more, I was so exhausted I slept … the whole night.” Christine had been about to say like a baby, but caught herself.

“So why did they take it off the shelves? Is it really him?” Lauren’s eyes flared with alarm.

“They took it off the shelves pending their investigation, whatever that means. We don’t know anything more than you do. We’re going to meet with Michelle and Davidow today, after school.”

“Good.”

“But Homestead won’t tell Davidow, or us, if our donor is Jeffcoat, because it has contracts for confidentiality with our donor, and we signed a contract saying that we understood that.”

“Oh boy.” Lauren leaned against the desk, folding her arms. “So they don’t have to tell you?”

“Right; legally nobody has to tell us anything.”

“Let’s see what the investigation yields. We shouldn’t freak until we know the results. How’s Marcus? How is he handling this?”

“I conked out last night, but I don’t think he slept at all. He was on the computer in his office when I woke up.” Christine glanced at the clock and realized she had an appointment with a student in fifteen minutes, the first in a day full of appointments, before the end of the year.

“Doing what?”

“I don’t know, we didn’t get time to talk about it this morning. I just noticed he was printing a lot of things, which he never does, and he was running late this morning, which he never is.”

“The poor guy.” Lauren’s lower lip puckered, with sympathy.

“I know.” Christine leaned over, unzipped the first tote bag, and started unpacking the gift bags. She was giving each of her students a book, a squiggle pen, and a self-addressed postcard, so they could tell her their impressions of the book. It was lucky that she had bought the gifts and packed the bags last week, because she never would’ve had the energy last night.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No, I’ll let you know what happens tonight.” Christine pulled out the gift bags and set them on the desk. She’d customized the gifts for each of her students, so Cal Watson, a second-grader with tracking problems who loved dogs, got a puppy-themed gift bag with a copy of Fun Dog, Sun Dog. Talieeta Choudhoury, a sixth-grader who had reading comprehension problems but was obsessed with pirates, got a copy of Treasure Island in a black gift bag; the book was a reach for Talieeta, but Christine had put an encouraging note inside, telling her to give it a shot. Gemma Oglethorpe, a first-grader who struggled with her sight words, got Hot Rod Hamster in a floral gift bag, because it was impossible to find a hamster-themed gift bag.

Lauren helped her unpack. “You are so sweet to do this. You must have spent a fortune.”

“It wasn’t that bad.” Christine flashed back to her early teaching career, when she first realized how much of their own money teachers spent on their students. It had come as a surprise, but she never begrudged it and didn’t know any teacher who did.

“So what are you thinking? How are you dealing?”

“Until yesterday, I was super happy. I thought I was carrying this adorable baby, and the truth is, I wasn’t really focused on the donor. I forgot all about him. I think of this baby as our baby, Marcus’s and mine.” Christine unpacked the bags, on autopilot. “Or at least, as my baby, but not because I made a ‘genetic contribution,’ as they say. But just because it’s in me.”

“Of course, that makes total sense.” Lauren gestured at Christine’s belly. “I mean, you’re pregnant. Duh.”

“But now all of a sudden, we’re back where we were two months ago, talking about sperm donors and ‘genetic contributions,’ and now it feels so strange, like everything is ruined.” Christine felt her eyes film but blinked them clear as she loaded the gift bags onto her empty desk.

“But it’s not ruined, it’s not ruined yet.”

“Honestly, yes it is. You don’t even know what Marcus said to the doctor last night.” Christine stopped short, knowing that if she told Lauren what Marcus had said, Lauren would permanently hate him, in the way of all true BFFs.

“What did he say?”

“It doesn’t matter, he didn’t mean it. Well, he did mean it, but he didn’t mean it to hurt me.” Christine kept unpacking the gift bags. “I mean, if I go back two months ago, when I was still thinking about the stupid donor, I thought I was carrying the baby of a medical student. Now I could be carrying the baby of a serial killer.”

“What are you saying?” Lauren frowned deeply, still helping her unpack.

“I’m saying I don’t know what’s inside me.” Christine shuddered. “Is it a bad-seed baby? Is it ‘Rosemary’s Baby’? Is it ‘Alien’?”

“Oh honey, no.” Lauren squeezed her arm. “It’s none of those things. It’s your baby.”

“And who else’s? Who’s the father? The biological father, that is.”

“Who cares who the biological father is?” Lauren touched her arm. “It doesn’t matter who the biological father is. You are the mother, and you’re going to be a great mother, and it’s going to be a great baby—”