She doesn't sound happy. Then again, she doesn't sound angry, either. Shocked, perhaps, or confused. My own reaction is numbed, the self-described man without fear feeling a tremor of terror deep in my gut that I'm intent on ignoring. My hearing is superhuman, but I'm neither an ultrasound nor a doctor. I could be mistaken, never mind that I've been around pregnant women before, this could just be me jumping the gun, wired still despite a few hours' sleep.

My God, I'm not ready to be a father. Maybe I should've thought about that before--

I sit up, suddenly needing to breathe, owning that bit of selfishness as I swing my legs off the bed and dig my elbows into my thighs, curling over. All the while I listen to that quick, wet echo of her heartbeat, knowing in spite of myself that I've just heard my child for the first time and working hard to keep an unfamiliar fear at bay.

"My hearing is--" I try to explain, but my voice waivers. I suck in a deep breath and straighten out my back, turning to face her and not close myself off. If I'm right, we're in this together. "I can hear heartbeats. I can hear-- Its, uh."