“That was before blood made me woozy. I’m pretty sure that’s why I don’t like looking at stuff like that,” Holly said quietly.

I didn’t try to lighten or evade this conversation. Instead, I put myself at the party; I felt the thrumming music and saw the Christmas lights hung everywhere even though it was May. The ruddy painted concrete floor in the basement—sticky, downright wet, even. I hated the basement of that house and rarely went down there.

“I was stupid. Had no experience with boys.” She paused, and I willed myself not to say anything. To just listen. “He’d stopped bleeding, but his wound looked terrible. I thought I could see a bit of bone. Then he shoved me, hard, and I fell onto a bare mattress on the floor. That’s how I got covered in beer. My cup flew out of my hand and spilled all over both of us. It must have surprised him because I had just enough time to raise my knee. I accidentally caught him right in the nuts. His full weight came down, and he rolled off of me. Called me a . . . dyke. You know, there were rumors even then. He spit on me.” The muscles of her jaw flexed.

I heard myself gasp in shock. “Holly. My God, why didn’t you tell me this?” I racked my brain, tried to remember that night more clearly. My disappointment turned to grief.

“I was drunk. So embarrassed to be so stupid. Also, back then, it was just what happened at parties. Date rape and assault, they weren’t things. I thought I shouldn’t be such a baby. Nothing happened.”

She’d come up the stairs looking wild eyed, soaked in beer. She threw up in the corner of the party house. Behind the front door. I tried to remember what she looked like, how I could have missed that she’d almost been raped. Wondered if this is what made her so angry at me. Did she blame me for leaving her alone?

“We got home, and you threw up a bunch more.”

“The hate in his face. Real hate. He pushed me so hard, I had a bruise on my collarbone forever. My head grazed the cement wall. There was nothing playful or sexual about it—it was violent. It changed me.”

An icy feeling in the part in my hair moved down my neck and into my shoulders as I ran through my own memories. “I thought you were emotional about graduation and leaving.” I began to see that I’d missed so much of that night. It was no wonder I hadn’t been able to understand what had happened to us.

“There was that too. I thought he was my friend. I realized you can’t trust people.”

“Then we had that thing about Mike and that disgusting thing he said. You must have felt surrounded by”—I searched for the right word—“traitors?” It felt satisfying to name it, to attach careful words to it. I’d watched an archeologists’ dig on television once, was amazed at the painstaking precision it took to unearth a fragment of the past. This felt like that.

“Who’s Mike? What disgusting thing?” Summer asked, reminding us that we were not alone talking about this very private thing.

I hesitated, giving Holly a chance to answer or protest. When she didn’t, I said, “Mike was a guy Katie was seeing. He made this gross gesture insinuating that Holly and I were having sex in the living room.”

“Were you?”

“No,” I said. “We were very close. We spent all our time together.”

“We did spend all our time together.” She quieted. I could see her remembering.

“I don’t have any memories of college without Holly and Katie in them.”

Holly sighed. “I never drank like that again. I never get drunk.”

“Is that what happened to you two?” You had to hand it to Summer. For a woman with the girth of a Popsicle stick, she never shied away from the fray.

“No!” Holly said. “No,” she said again.

Ugh, I thought. Ugh, there’s more. I felt sick to my stomach. There was more to consider. More to our story.

The ringtone for Rosie jingled from Holly’s phone on the dash. A wash of disappointment flooded through me. I was ready to hear the rest, however terrible it might be. Holly answered the phone and motioned for all of us to get in the car. “Hi, sweetie. Why are you up?” She gestured for me to get in and drive. I heard Summer maneuver around the dogs and slam her door. I pulled out of the gas station parking lot while listening to Holly.

“How close? Is the baby moving?” Holly listened and said, “Remember what they said about 411. Four minutes apart, lasting one minute, for at least one hour. Then hospital.”

I could hear the tinny voice of Rosie on the line, but not what she was saying. I caught Summer’s eye and mouthed the word labor.

“I’m not driving. Sam is. Why? Just tell me.” She paused and said, “What’s going on?”

I plugged one ear, leaned toward her, tried to hear what Rosie was saying.

“You have to go to the hospital!”

My worry ratcheted up with the volume of Holly’s voice. I touched her forearm. Summer had a hand on Holly’s shoulder.

“When your water breaks, there’s a greater chance of infection.” Holly’s voice became high pitched and I accelerated in response.

“No. Not an Uber, honey. Call Luther next door. He knows what to do. It’s not a bother. No, remember. We gave him all that zucchini bread for just this occasion.” In a more forceful voice, she said, “Do not take an Uber—do you hear me?” She sighed. “I’m sorry. Sweetie, I’m sorry for that tone. I just. Okay. We are about four hours away. We’ll be there in three. I love you. I love you more. I love you most of all.”

She hung up the phone and looked at us. “Can I drive?” A typical Holly demand that came out instead as a respectful ask.

“We’re going to get you there, Holly. Tell her, Summer. Read the universe. We’ll get there, right?”

“I mean, there was never any doubt, you guys. Never,” Summer said, leaning forward.

“How many babies get delivered a year, do you think?” Holly asked.

“Like in the world or Wisconsin?” I said, hoping to distract Holly.

“I’ll google it,” Summer said.

“Let’s just do the US.”

“Three point eight million.”

“If you divide that by three hundred sixty-five days in a year, it comes to like”—Holly paused for a breath and said—“ten and a half thousand babies delivered in a day.”

I’d forgotten how good Holly was at math too. All those years of learning about her in college and then all those years forgetting, because she was no longer around to remind me. We had friend-dementia. Moose wheezed his signature sigh as if to say, What a waste.

“How many of those deliveries go badly?” Holly asked but abruptly changed her mind. “Wait, I don’t want to know.”

“Rosie is healthy, and I’m sure has taken great care of herself. She isn’t high risk,” I said.

“How much did it hurt? It looked like it was agony.” For the briefest of seconds, Holly and I made eye contact. I knew what she was asking. She didn’t want facts; she wanted reassurance.

“You don’t have to worry about that. They have epidurals. I didn’t get one because they missed the window with my progress.” Holly was listening. I could see she wanted details. “After my water broke, it still took hours for Maddie to come, but I don’t remember those hours. I remember some pain, a lot of pushing, and the most fabulous release. Then Maddie, on my chest already looking to nurse.”

“I saw you delivering Maddie without Jeff. I had to get out of there. It made me too sad,” Holly said softly.

I let that sit in my brain. She left not because she hated me or didn’t care. It was because she did care, and suddenly I had another layer to add to the memory of Maddie’s birthday. A balm for a rough patch that had always existed in my memory.

“Katie was there. I was in such a fog of pain, but it was so good to get a glimpse of you.” Realizing I’d said pain and reminded her about Rosie, I added, “You really do forget everything once the baby is in your arms.”

“I don’t want her hurting without me.”

“Rosie knows you’re trying your best to get there. She is so lucky to have you.”

“I shouldn’t have left Rosie so close to the end.”

“She’s early, though, right?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Moose sit up. He let out a yip like he was feeling the speed and was as uncomfortable as I was.

Holly glanced at me. “I’m no good in emergencies. Rosie says I’m missing an empathy gene.”

“I think that makes you good at emergencies.” Moose let out two sharp barks and a growl. I turned, and the usually almost coma-quiet Moose stood on his hind legs, his front paws leaning on the back of the front seat. His buggy eyes reflected the lights on the dash.

In slow motion, my brain went from This is unlike Moose to Why is he doing this? to What does Peanut think of this? to Peanut sure is quiet to Oh no.

I pitched forward so abruptly, the seat belt, afraid for my life, clutched me tightly.

Summer started. “What’s happening now?”

“Peanut!” I reached back, felt his warm fur. “Peanut!” The dog didn’t move. Moose barked again. I looked at the time. He hadn’t eaten for a while. “Peanut’s blood sugar might be low.”