Thursday, August 11, 2:30 AM. Amy.

Trevor came in crying with a skinned-up knee this afternoon. He’d fallen off his bike. I put some antibiotic ointment on it and a Band-Aid and told him it would be fine.

But something about it unnerved me. We’ve always taken good medical care for granted. A little cut, a little scrape, it would heal up by itself. If it didn’t, you went to the doctor and they fixed you up, no problem. But now…? Didn’t people use to die from cuts and scrapes that went gangrenous? What will I do if one of the kids comes in with a scrape that’s turning green and won’t heal?

What’s going to happen with this baby?

I never imagined having a fourth child in my late 30s. I certainly never imagined it taking place under these circumstances.

The baby is Brewer’s. I cut it off with Alan in May. The baby didn’t happen until June. I know that it’s Brewers. But I’m concerned that Brewer may harbor doubts. He says he knows it’s his, and he’s never shown a hint of doubt or resentment or rejection. But I don’t know how there can’t be at least a little gremlin of uncertainty picking away at the wings of his confidence, his manhood.

I don’t know how he can stand me. I can’t stand me.

The doctor said that since the first three pregnancies were “easy” (not the way I would’ve described them) and I’m “fit as a fiddle,“ he didn’t see a problem. Maybe he was trying to encourage me. Anxiety is half the battle.

I could use another dose of encouragement right now. Everything seems fine. I’ve had a little more sickness than before and I don’t remember my clothes getting this tight this fast. But as far as I can tell, the baby is healthy. I hope he will be—he, she, there’s no way to tell now—I hope he will be healthy. I’m doing my running every other day, through silent and trash-strewn streets. I stretch half an hour every day. I just…I hope everything goes smoothly.

Unless we can find some sort of civilization, there won’t be any hospitals or doctors or drugs or emergency procedures to make sure things turn out all right. I’d be happy simply to have a midwife with me when I give birth at home like a pioneer. I’d even take a witchy old medicine woman with herbs and smoke and ninety years of experience. But unless we can find some other humans in the world, all good options are off the table.