“They are in the neonatal intensive care unit,” he said.

His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot.

“Are they okay?”

“They are tiny,” he said, his voice cracking slightly.

“But they are breathing on their own. They are fighters, Hannah.”

I let out a breath I felt like I had been holding for months.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Ethan did not answer right away.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of white paper.

He unfolded it with slow, deliberate movements.

His fingers were shaking.

“The rapid profiling came back from the lab ten minutes ago,” he said.

He looked down at the paper, then back at me.

“I didn’t want to believe my mother could do what she did.”

“Ethan…”

“The genetic markers are a perfect match,” he said.

He set the paper on the bedside table.

The bold letters of the hospital logo stared up at me.

“They are mine,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

“I am their father.”

A single tear ran down his cheek, tracing a line through the dry dust on his skin.