9 months later.

“Call him again!” I shrieked as the nurses wheeled me into the OR.

Greta sniffled. “I’ve called him already, he’s coming Julia—“

“No!” I cried, my hands digging into the stretcher, my lower half aching as if a trailer crashed into me. “You’re lying so I stay calm, right?” I hiccuped.

Greta shook her head, wiping my tears. “Just hang on, okay?” She begged: “They have the best doctors here and—“

“I want my husband, Greta!” I sobbed as we got closer to the operation theatre.

I wasn’t sure if I was referring to the Atlas from the courtroom or the one who returned from that trip...