He paced the infirmary.

From the door to the back counter and back again.

Seven long steps. Sixteen small ones.

There and back again.

Each circuit got him no closer to a plan. No idea what to say. No idea if he should say anything at all.

He had asked him too. Had trusted him to do this for him, if he died.

And he wasn’t sure if he should.

He had promised him, a promise to a dead man. A promise from a doctor to his patient.

He didn’t think he should keep it.

Zoë hurt so much.

How would this help?

And how fair would it be to the child?

A mother, but no father.

Born when its father lay cold in the ground. CONCIEVED when its father was dead.

But he had promised doctor to patient. Friend to friend.

He had to tell her.

But how?