Twelve minutes. That was the gap between my water breaking and our daughter arriving on the cold, white tile of our third-floor apartment bathroom. I remember the sound of the rain against the window and the way the floor felt like ice against my skin, but mostly I remember David. He was my rock. He was the one who kept his cool while I was screaming, the one who moved with a kind of desperate, frantic energy to get the towels, the water, the phone.

He was kneeling right in front of me when she finally came out. He caught her. I watched him pull her to his chest, and I saw his hands shaking. They weren’t just trembling from the adrenaline of a bathroom delivery. They were moving in a rhythmic, jagged way, like his nerves were firing on their own accord. I grabbed his wrists. I remember pulling them close to me, trying to steady him, thinking, it’s just the shock, David. It’s just the shock of being a dad.

The paramedics showed up seventeen minutes later. I remember the smell of the damp night air rushing into the bathroom when they opened the door, followed by the clinical, sharp scent of antiseptic. Ray Miller was the lead. He was forty-six, with a face that looked like it had seen every kind of disaster Oakridge had to offer. He was efficient, professional, and entirely focused on the baby.

He cut the cord, checked her breathing, and nodded at me with a tired, kind smile.

“She’s a fighter,” he said.

I felt a wave of relief so heavy it made me dizzy. I was exhausted, but I was happy. I watched David stand up to sign the intake forms. He was still holding the baby, but his right hand was struggling to grip the pen. It wasn’t a tremor of excitement. It was a fine, rapid-fire spasm. I watched the pen skitter across the paper, leaving a jagged, illegible mess. David looked frustrated, but he just shook his head and stuffed the clipboard into Ray’s hand, trying to hide his hands in his pockets.

Ray didn’t take the clipboard immediately. He watched David for a second, his eyes narrowing. He didn’t look like a guy who was just waiting for the paperwork to be done. He looked like a guy who was reading a manual.

“Ma’am, I need to tell you something about what I saw in your bathroom,” Ray said. He had pulled me aside in the hallway, away from the chaos of the stretcher being wheeled toward the door. His voice was quiet, stripped of the usual paramedic pleasantries. “I need you to look at me.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. “What? Is the baby okay?”

“The baby is fine,” Ray said. He looked toward David, who was walking down the hall with our daughter tucked into his jacket. “He wasn’t shaking because he was scared. I used to be an industrial safety inspector before I joined the precinct EMS. Those are intention tremors caused by neurotoxic exposure. I’ve seen that exact motor pattern in three workers from Sterling Chemical over the last two years.”

The world seemed to tilt. I felt like I was standing on the edge of a cliff. “What are you talking about? He works in quality control. He’s just tired.”

“He’s not just tired,” Ray said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, worn notebook. “I’m going to put this in my report as a secondary observation. You need to get him to a specialist who knows toxicology. Not a general practitioner. A toxicologist.”

The next few hours were a blur of hospital lights and sterile rooms. I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t. Every time I looked at David, I saw the tremors. I started thinking about the last six months. The way he’d been dropping his coffee mug in the mornings. The way he’d started buttoning his shirts with his eyes closed, like he was concentrating on his hands. I’d told him he was working too hard. I’d told him to take a vacation.

He’d just smiled and said, “It’s just the double shifts, Clara. I’m fine.”

I waited until the baby was settled in the nursery and the nurse had left the room. David was sitting in the chair by the window, his hands folded in his lap. They were shaking. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him, and I didn’t hold back.

“Ray Miller told me what he saw,” I said.

David went completely still. He didn’t look at me. “Who?”

“The paramedic. He said your tremors are from neurotoxic exposure. He said he’s seen it at Sterling before.”

David finally looked at me. His eyes were red, exhausted, and full of a terror I’d never seen before. “I didn’t want you to know.