Thursday Afternoon, February 6, 2025 - St. Mary's Medical Building

David arrives fifteen minutes early, parking his car at the far end of the St. Mary's Medical Building lot. He sits for a moment, collecting himself, watching the entrance. The digital clock on his dashboard reads 1:45 PM. He isn't sure if Elena wants him to go in alone or if she's planning to meet him outside.

His phone buzzes with a news alert.

Breaking: "Fork in the Road" Deadline Extended to February 10
Federal judge temporarily halts program; Administration extends resignation window for 2 million federal employees after court challenge.

Breaking: "Fork in the Road" Deadline Extended to February 10

Federal judge temporarily halts program; Administration extends resignation window for 2 million federal employees after court challenge.

Schedule F barreling ahead, inspectors general fired, now this extension after a court intervened. Nisha's uncle still in limbo, along with tens of thousands of others.

His phone buzzes again:

EO 14203 Signed: Sanctions on International Criminal Court Officials
Executive order imposes travel bans and financial restrictions on ICC prosecutors investigating US and allies.

EO 14203 Signed: Sanctions on International Criminal Court Officials

Executive order imposes travel bans and financial restrictions on ICC prosecutors investigating US and allies.

David puts the phone away. Today isn't about politics. It's about Elena, about their baby, about whatever remains of their marriage. He gets out of the car.

He spots Elena approaching from the bus stop. She's wearing a dark green coat he hasn't seen before, her hair loose around her shoulders instead of in her usual work bun. She sees him and pauses almost imperceptibly before continuing toward the entrance.

They meet at the doors.

"Thank you," he says, "for letting me come."

She nods, holds the door open. "Let's go in."

The elevator rises. David stares at the floor numbers, watching them light up.

The OB-GYN office is painted in calming blues, abstract art on the walls, reception desk staffed by a woman with a gentle smile. Elena checks in while David finds seats. A heavily pregnant woman flips through a magazine. A young couple whispers to each other, excitement visible. A solo woman types rapidly on her phone.

Elena sits beside him. Places her purse between them like a border marker.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

"Tired. Nauseous in the mornings." She hesitates. "Worried."

"About the baby?"

"About everything." Her eyes meet his. "The world it's coming into. Us."

Before he can respond, a nurse appears at the door. "Elena Brenner?"

They follow the nurse down a hallway lined with exam rooms. She takes Elena's weight, blood pressure, asks a series of intake questions. David stands to the side, unsure of his role.

"The doctor will be in shortly," the nurse says, leaving them in an exam room with a paper-covered table, an ultrasound machine, diagrams of fetal development on the walls. The machine emits a faint electronic hum. The air smells of lavender soap and something clinical underneath.

Elena sits on the exam table, paper crinkling beneath her. David takes the chair in the corner.

"I've been thinking," David begins. "About what you said. About being with you, really with you."

Elena looks at him, waiting.

"I've been trying to maintain this impossible neutrality. As if I could somehow teach about the destruction of democracy without acknowledging what's happening right now."

"It's not just about what you say in class, David." Elena's voice is quiet but firm. "It's about what you're willing to fight for. What matters enough to risk something."

"I know." He meets her gaze directly. "I'm starting to understand that silence isn't neutral. It's complicity."

A knock on the door interrupts them. The doctor enters, a woman in her fifties with silver-streaked dark hair and rectangular glasses.

"Hi there, I'm Dr. Dumas," she says warmly. "You must be Elena and David. First baby?"

Elena nods. "Yes."

Dr. Dumas reviews Elena's chart, asks about symptoms, family history. She explains the process ahead–today's ultrasound, future appointments, testing options for women over 35. Elena answers with calm efficiency.

"Any questions before we do the ultrasound?" Dr. Dumas asks.

"Is everything normal so far?" David asks.

Dr. Dumas smiles reassuringly. "Everything looks textbook. Let's have a look at your baby, shall we?"

Elena lies back, raises her shirt to expose her abdomen. Dr. Dumas applies the gel, then moves the ultrasound wand across Elena's skin. The screen lights up with grayscale shapes.

"There we are," Dr. Dumas says, pointing to a small oval shape. "That's your baby."

David leans forward, unable to make sense of the grainy image at first. Then he sees it–a tiny form, a flickering pulse.

"That's the heartbeat," Dr. Dumas explains. "Strong and regular, exactly what we want to see."

A rapid whooshing sound fills the room as she turns up the volume.

"One hundred and sixty beats per minute," Dr. Dumas says. "Perfect for eight weeks."

Something shifts inside him. This is real. A small collection of cells, their child, growing steadily despite the chaos around them.

He reaches for Elena's hand. After a moment's hesitation, she takes it, her fingers curling around his.

"Everything looks perfect," Dr. Dumas says, taking measurements and typing notes. "Based on this, I would put you at exactly eight weeks, which gives us an expected due date of October 1."

October 1, 2025. The world could be unrecognizable by then. He forces the thought down. Not his job to predict. His job to decide who he'd be in the meantime—whether he'd help shape that world or merely observe it.

"I'll print some images for you to take home," Dr. Dumas says, pressing buttons on the machine. "And we'll want to see you back in four weeks."

She hands Elena paper towels to wipe off the gel, then gives her a folder with prenatal information and prescription for vitamins. "Any questions for me?"

Elena asks about food restrictions, activity limits. David catalogs each one. When Dr. Dumas leaves, promising to send in a nurse with the ultrasound images, they're alone again.

"That was…"

"I know," Elena says softly. Touching her still-flat stomach, something vulnerable flickers across her expression—something he rarely sees.

The nurse returns with printouts–three grainy images showing different angles of the tiny form that will become their child. Elena takes them, hands one to David.

"Thank you," he says, studying the image. "For letting me be here."

She nods slowly. "This doesn't fix everything, David."

"I know."

"I need more than moments of connection. I need to know that you understand what's at stake–for our family, for everyone."

David looks at the ultrasound photo in his hand. "I've been thinking about Kershaw. He wrote that the road to Auschwitz was built by hate but paved with indifference." He meets her eyes. "I don't want to be part of that pavement anymore."

Something flickers across Elena's face. Not quite hope. But perhaps its precursor.

"Words are easy," she says. "I need to see action."

"I know." He pauses. "Yesterday in class, I talked about elite accommodation. How democracy fails when people who should know better choose short-term advantage over democratic principles."

"And?"

"And I've been accommodating too. Hiding behind academic neutrality while watching the patterns emerge." He takes a deep breath. "I'm done with that."

She studies his face, searching for sincerity. "What does that mean, practically?"

"I'm still figuring that out," he admits. "But it starts with honesty–in class, in my research, with colleagues. No more hedging. No more false equivalence."

"That could have consequences for your career."

"I know." He looks again at the ultrasound photo. "But there are bigger consequences for staying silent."

Elena's expression softens slightly. "One step at a time, David. Let's see what this looks like in action."

The elevator descends. They stand closer now, not touching, but the distance between them has narrowed. Outside, the February afternoon is cold but bright.

"Can I drive you somewhere?" David asks. "Home, or work?"

Elena considers this. "I need to stop by the coalition office. We're setting up a legal observer training for Saturday."

"I could drive you there," he offers.

She considers this for a moment, then nods. "Okay."

In the car, Elena holds the folder with the ultrasound images on her lap. David drives, hyperaware of her presence beside him, of the small life she carries.

"We should talk about practical things," she says. "The spare bedroom would make a good nursery. It gets morning light."

"Yes." His chest tightens. She's making plans, thinking ahead. "We could paint it. Something neutral–yellow or green."

"And we'll need to figure out childcare. My maternity leave won't be long enough."

David hesitates, then says, "I could take parental leave for the spring semester. The department would accommodate it."

Elena looks at him with surprise. "You'd do that?"

"Of course." He glances at her. "I want to be a real partner in this. Not just when it's convenient."

She's quiet for a moment. "That would help."

As they approach downtown, Elena's phone buzzes. She checks it, her expression hardening.

"Calls coming in. Families terrified about the enforcement sweeps. We don't know where they'll hit next." She looks up at David. "This is what I'm fighting against. This is what our baby will be born into unless we change it."

David nods. The ultrasound folder on her lap. The news alert on her screen. Both true at once.

"The coalition office is on the next block," Elena says. "You can drop me at the corner."

He pulls over, puts the car in park. "When will you be home?"

"Late. Don't wait up." She pauses. "But I will be home."

"Elena," he says as she reaches for the door handle. "I'll be there for the next appointment. And all the ones after that."

She looks at him. "I know you will. And I need you there for everything else too. The hard conversations. The necessary fights."

"I'm learning," he says. "Trying to catch up to where you've been all along."

She almost smiles. "Better late than never, Professor." She touches his hand briefly. "Thanks for today."

David watches her walk toward the coalition office, folder of ultrasound images tucked into her purse. His phone buzzes:

Protests Continue: 150+ House Democrats Demand Answers on Musk's Data Access
Rep. Steve Cohen leads letter expressing concern over DOGE chairman's access to sensitive government systems.

Protests Continue: 150+ House Democrats Demand Answers on Musk's Data Access

Rep. Steve Cohen leads letter expressing concern over DOGE chairman's access to sensitive government systems.

He puts the phone away, the ultrasound image in his wallet. February 6. Seventeen days into the administration. His child is eight weeks along, 237 days until October. The world will be very different by then.

The question is whether he'll have helped shape that difference or merely observed it from behind scholarly distance.

He puts the car in drive. Tomorrow is another class. Another chance to decide what kind of professor he wants to be.

He parks in the faculty lot, the afternoon sun glinting off windshields. His phone buzzes:

Elena:

I'm glad you were there today.

David:

Me too. See you tonight.

Elena:

I'm glad you were there today.

I'm glad you were there today.

David:

Me too. See you tonight.

Me too. See you tonight.

It isn't much. But it's a beginning.