Clara reached into her apron for a towel.

A coil of thick white nylon cord caught against her fingers before she pushed it back into the pocket.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“I need to go.

The baby isn’t due for another month.”

That was how I described it then, roughly, without calculating weeks.

I knew only that this was too early and that something had changed during dinner.

“They will take care of you,” Clara whispered.