By 3:30 Fred was checking the clock every three minutes. By 4:00 he fidgeted through the refrigerator looking for something to boil, bake, or fry.

When Fiona was an hour and fifteen minutes late and Fred had demoted 'oilchange' and 'traffic' and 'grocery stop' on his list, he called the office. A young chipper voice told him Fiona had left at 2:45.

Fred loved his wife but had never worried or missed her since the last pink bundle she'd delivered three decades ago. He wondered if . . . but no, that was impossible.

While he waited he kept busy to shadow the worry. He sorted his books, aligned the shoes in his closet; he burnt dinner.