"Henry, help me! Please!"
Henry ran, or tried to, but fell almost immediately, his feet skidding in something slippery. He looked down and nearly gagged, feeling his palms, how warm and wet they were.
Blood.
The floor was dark with it, the air sharp with the coppery smell.
Where was it coming from? And so much? Where was Mouse?
"Henry!"
He was in a corridor, tiled, like a subway, or a hospital. One fluorescent light flickered overhead, from time to time, and he could see huge splatters on the wall, like some demented Jackson Pollack had come through, swinging a huge brush.
"Henry!" Mouse's voice, desperate and in unimaginable pain, calling to him.
He braced his slick palms on the walls as best he could, leaving smears as he tried to gain his feet. Then, suddenly, he was standing in front of swinging double doors, the kind with round windows set in them. The fresh sheared copper smell was even stronger than before, and Henry knew that Mouse was on the other side of the doors.
He didn't want to look, but he had to.
He peered through the round window, afraid.
It was an operating room, but it also looked like a kitchen in a diner. Gleaming, shining metal instruments and trays of equipment were all around. Steam obscured his view, and Henry knew that he was going to have to go in, even though he didn't want to.
He pushed open the door.
Mouse was lying on a table in her favorite white nightgown, her belly huge, eyes wide and glazed with pain. Her legs were up in stirrups and people wearing scrubs and aprons were standing around her. Their faces were obscured with masks, and they were holding scalpels and forceps and cleavers.
Cleavers?
Mouse turned to Henry, reaching for him with a desperate hand.
"Help me," she gasped. "It really hurts, something's wrong, but no one will tell me anything." Mouse's eyes were large and dark, swimming with tears.
Henry reached to stroke her hair off her forehead, trying to tell her that everything would be okay, but the person holding the cleaver gestured threateningly with it in his direction, and he realized that if he spoke, he would be punished. So Henry just tried to smile reassuringly at Mouse, who was in agony in front of him.
Henry looked more closely at the "person" wielding the cleaver, and he realized that the eyes regarding him over the mask weren't human at all; they were bulbous and multi-faceted, with hundreds of tiny planes that reflected the lights of the room. They were insect eyes, with antennae waving over them where eyebrows should be, and the hands holding the cleaver were actually claws, pincers, like those of a praying mantis.
Oh dear Jesus.
Henry turned back to Mouse, trying not to let his terror show in his eyes. She was in labor, blood coming out of her with every contraction, and something was really wrong. He couldn't let her know that she was actually strapped to a table in a kitchen, being attended by gigantic bugs who were holding huge utensils to use as instruments.
"Henry? This hurts so much," Mouse whimpered. "This can't be right, it can't be right--Henry? Henry? Henry, please! Henry--Henry--

"Henry!"

He sat straight up, eyes wide open in the dark.

Mouse could feel the whole bed move as her husband trembled next to her. His skin was cold and damp with perspiration when she reached for him. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and she could smell the fear coming off him.

She switched on the lamp so she could see him, though she wasn't sure if he could see her. At the foot of the bed, Merry and Christmas lifted their ginger and tabby heads, blinking in the unexpected light.

"Henry, are you awake?" She again reached out a tentative hand.

He looked at her, blinking, finally nodding. Mouse could see beads of perspiration at his temples and all over his chest. His breathing was rapid, too, and he looked like he'd just gotten off a roller coaster, not like someone who'd been sleeping in his own bed.

"I'm okay," he said unconvincingly. He took a deep breath and let it out, then swallowed.

Mouse wordlessly got out of bed and went to the kitchen, returning moments later with cold water from the refrigerator.

Henry took it from her with murmured thanks, drinking the entire glass down in one go. He set the glass down as Mouse came from the bathroom with a towel which she used to wipe the sweat off his body.

"That's the third or fourth time you've woken me up with a nightmare," Mouse said softly, sitting down on his side of the bed. "And that's only the times I've woken up, you know? I don't even know how many times you've actually had nightmares," she reproached him.

"Get back in bed, honey," Henry asked. "Please? You need to sleep, you need to rest."

"Henry, you and Leo are gone all day, I can sleep with Happy and the cats for hours if I want," she retorted, though she did climb over him and return to her side. He grasped her bottom and helped her as she accomplished this maneuver, which made her smile.

"You don't, though," he said. "You're running yourself ragged, cooking, cleaning, volunteering for stuff at Leo's school, getting the nursery ready."

"Stop trying to change the subject," Mouse scolded, hitting Henry's chest. "Can you at least tell me what the dream's about?" She looked carefully at his face.

He shook his head. "It's nothing, really," he replied, rubbing her shoulder. There was no way he could tell her about the ghastly thing holding the cleaver, or the blood splattered tiles. Every time he had the dream, it lasted a little longer, there was a little more detail. Who knew what kind of horror movie it would be by the time Mouse actually delivered?

"Henry, I'm only at eleven weeks," Mouse said, smoothing her nightgown over her stomach, which was still flat. "You're going to be a wreck by the time this little bean is actually born. You can't go on like this, you know?" She leaned forward and kissed his temple, right by his hairline. "You have circles under your eyes already, you look like a haunted hero in a romance novel or something."

"I guess it is kind of ironic," Henry said with a wry grin. "I had insomnia for years after Josie died. Then I started sleeping with you next to me, and I finally understood the phrase 'sleeping like a baby,' I thought," He looked at Mouse and shrugged. "Spoke too soon, I guess."

"Well, it's only two-thirty," Mouse said. "You need more sleep." She leaned over and switched off the light, then lay down, pulling Henry down next to her. "Come on, please sleep, okay?"

He put his arms around her, snuggling in to lay his head on her, under her chin. She lifted her leg over his hip, and he ran a hand down her backside and the back of her leg, pulling her even closer.

"I swear, there would be no wars and the world would be a happy place if everyone could sleep right here," he murmured as his eyes slipped closed.

"Enjoy it while you can," Mouse returned with a soft laugh. "In a few months it's going to be like you're in bed with a whale, remember?"

"And that'll be nice, too," Henry responded, goosing her gently as he slid gently into the warm waters of slumber.

The next day, Mouse called Dr. Bernstein to talk about Henry and his nightmares. She felt a little guilt to be going behind her husband's back, but she knew he'd never make the call himself.

"Well, if it's as bad as you say, dear, I don't see why we can't run a few tests, just to put his mind at ease," Dr. Bernstein replied.

"Really? It's that easy?" Mouse was surprised.

"Well, of course, some insurance companies don't want to cover what they consider to be extraneous and non-necessary procedures, but you have a very good plan, and if I say that I believe it medically necessary, there shouldn't be a problem," the doctor replied in her wonderfully soothing voice. "In addition, I'm sure Henry wouldn't have a problem covering the cost of the tests out of pocket if it came to that?"

"I'm sure you're right," Mouse agreed. She couldn't imagine Henry saying no anything where the baby was concerned, especially if she, Mouse, asked him to do it.

"Why didn't he tell me himself?" Dr. Bernstein asked. "How long has this been going on?"

"I'm not exactly sure," Mouse admitted. "But it's happened at least three or four times in the last couple weeks."

"Given what he went through with his first wife, it's not surprising," the doctor said. "And what happened to you last year didn't help, I'm sure.

"What about you, dear?" she continued. "Are you worried at all?"

"No, actually, I'm okay, mentally," Mouse answered. "I'm still feeling so sick all the time, which is making me feel really good about things, you know? I mean, the fact that I'm 'barfy,' as Leo says, is very reassuring."

"Wonderful," the doctor laughed. "So talk to Henry tonight, then, and call me tomorrow to get a referral to a genetics lab for some testing, how's that sound? Maybe we can put your silly husband's fears to rest, and he can get some sleep so he'll be well-rested and able help you after you deliver."

"Sounds perfect," Mouse responded. "I'll tell him I've been worried, maybe that will convince him to do this."

"Whatever it takes," Dr. Bernstein agreed.

So that's what Mouse did. That night, when they were relaxing in the family room after dinner, Mouse casually mentioned that she'd talked to her mother that afternoon.

"Oh? How is she?" Henry asked, not looking up from his laptop.

Leo looked over from where he was having some of his Star Wars lego figures climb all over Happy.

"She was talking about how she and her sisters didn't find out about that breast cancer gene until so late," Mouse said, continuing with her knitting. She was making a receiving blanket for the baby. "She said that sometimes some of those genetic markers can skip a generation, and that me and all of my sisters should have the test, even though she tested negative." This was a complete fabrication on Mouse's part; she had no idea how cancer genes worked, and as far as she knew, neither her mother nor any of her sisters had tested positive for any sort of cancer gene.

"Oh, wow, that sounds sort of serious, maybe you should get that done, honey," Henry said, looking up from his laptop for the first time. Leo, too, sat up from where Han Solo was mountaineering on Happy's stomach.

"Mommy, did you say you might have a cancer?" he asked, clutching his toy.

"No, Leo, no, I just need to take a test to make sure I'll never get it," Mouse assured him. She turned back to Henry. "So Dr. Bernstein was saying that, since I have to go anyway, this might be a good time for both of us to go and get genetic testing, since I'm pregnant? Just get it out of the way?" She smiled. "And we can do the fun stuff, too, like you're always talking about, like in the TV commercials, you know, how you can find out about where you're from?"

Henry began to smile.

"You mean like how much of us is Irish and all that?" he asked.

Mouse nodded. "We can do both of us, and check for the baby and the breast cancer thing at the same time, what do you think?" she asked.

"Sure, sounds like fun," Henry replied. He looked over at Leo. "What do you think, son? Want to know where we're from? Find out about the Gardener clan?"

Leo nodded. "Like where you spit in the test tube? My friend Cullen at school did that!" He smiled. "Neat!"

Mouse smiled at her men. "Neat, indeed. Great, I'll make an appointment for all of us, then."

"Sounds great," Henry agreed. "What a wonderful idea, honey."

"Yeah," she nodded, sitting back with her knitting. "Wonderful."