7
DECEMBER CAME. One of the guards mentioned to me that it was Christmas Day. He did not use the word merry. Then January marched by me. The baby’s due date, January 10, came and passed. Maybe my son was born now, drawing his sharp breaths, needing me. And I was stuck in a rocky hellhole.
That day, Howell came into my cell. “Your child was due today.”
I looked up from the black bread and the potato soup I was having for lunch.
“Cooperate and maybe we can find her. We have every hospital in Europe on alert for her. You could see your son, Sam. Don’t you want to see your boy?”
My face set into steel, no matter how torn my heart felt. “Yes. But I’ve told you everything. Let me go, Howell. Let me go. Let me help you find her.”
“What would you have named him?”
I didn’t want to talk to Howell about my lost son. I didn’t want to talk to Howell period. “Screw you,” I said. “What the hell would you care what we wanted to name our kid?”
“You’re really angry today, Sam.”
“I’m sick of you. Of all of you. Of your utter stupidity.”
Howell studied me, and then he stood. “Here’s the thing. I’ve fought for you. I believed you when you said you knew nothing. I think you are an innocent man. For what that’s worth.” He dropped a piece of paper on the stone floor. A photo of one of the ultrasounds, The Bundle in all his glory. Howell walked out.
I studied the picture. My child.
Am I a father? Has he been born? I have to get out of here. My kid needs me.
But I stayed sitting on the cold stone floor, thinking.