"I called the agency!" she shouts back, already pulling me inside. "Margaret said she'd send someone!"
I step into chaos.
Baby items are on the floor: bottles, diapers, a carrier with the buckles hanging open, and tiny clothes that look like they've seen some things. The kitchen beyond is worse: formula powder coats the counter, a wet cloth draped over the tap, two mugs going cold. And in the doorway between the two rooms, Tyler West holds a screaming infant with the rigid caution of someone who has been afraid to adjust his grip for a while.
He looks worse than in his photos.
He also looks better, in a way I clock and immediately set aside.
Taller than I expected. Broader. A few days of stubble that wasn't in the team photos, sandy hair that's shorter but still overlong, a t-shirt with spit-up on the shoulder, and something else I'm not identifying. His eyes are bloodshot, and the panic in them is the kind that's been running for thirty-six hours straight.
He's holding Harper with one hand under her bottom and the other hovering near her middle, not quite touching, as if someone told him where to put his hands, but he hasn't managed to make it feel natural yet. Every muscle in his body is locked. His jaw is clenched hard enough that I can see it from across the room.
He looks like a man who is genuinely terrified of breaking something.
Not that any of that matters.
"Who are you?" His voice is hoarse, scraped raw.
"Nora Collins." I set my folder on the nearest clear surface and cross toward him with my hands out. "I'm a nanny. Margaret sent me. Can I take her?"
He looks at my outstretched hands like they're the most important thing he's ever been offered. "Please. God, please."
I take Harper carefully, adjusting her before he's fully let go. Head in the crook of my elbow, body angled, one hand underneath for security. She's warm and rigid and furious, her face scarlet, and she smells like formula, baby shampoo, and the particular distress of a baby who has had a very bad night with someone who didn't know what they were doing.
"Hey, sweetheart." I keep my voice low and even, starting to sway, the gentle, continuous rhythm that most infants respond to. "Hey. It's okay. I've got you."
She doesn't stop immediately. But the quality of the crying shifts. Less frantic. More tired. I bring her higher against my chest, where she can feel my heartbeat, and I start humming the melody my mother used to hum, shapeless, no particular song, just sound.
Three minutes and she's down to hiccups. Four, and she's quiet, her tiny fist finding my collarbone and staying there.
The house is still quiet enough that I can hear the kitchen faucet dripping.
Tyler is staring at me. Mouth slightly open. The relief on his face is so complete and so unguarded that something catches in the back of my throat before I can stop it. He looks like a man who has just been told he's not going to lose the thing he was most afraid of losing.
"How did you—" He stops. Tries again. "What did you?—"
"She needed to be held at the right angle, and she's exhausted. Babies this age need sixteen to seventeen hours of sleep. When did she last go down for more than an hour?"
"I don't know." I notice his hands are shaking. "Maybe two hours ago? She keeps waking up, and I don't know if that's normal or if something's wrong or?—"
"It's normal. New environment, new person, her whole world has changed." The blonde woman is at my elbow now, and up close she has the same bone-deep exhaustion as Tyler, though she's carrying it with more composure. "I'm Emma. This is Tyler. My mom, Diane, is on the couch, and Maya's in the kitchen."
I glance over. An older woman with graying hair and Emma's green eyes waves from the couch. In the kitchen doorway, a woman in scrubs with natural black curls watches me, arms crossed, with the look of someone who hasn't decided yet.
"We drove up from Hartford last night," Emma continues, steering me toward the couch. "Tyler called yesterday in a frazzled state, so the three of us got in the car. But none of us can stay long-term, which is why we need you."
"Four years of experience with infants under one year," I say, settling carefully so as not to disturb Harper. "CPR and first aid certified. My last placement was twin girls from birth to eighteen months. I have references."
Maya comes over and stands in front of me with her arms still crossed. "I'm a pediatric nurse at Hartford Children's Hospital.Do you mind if I ask you some questions? I need to make sure Tyler isn't hiring someone who's going to miss something."
"Go ahead."
She grills me for ten minutes. Fever thresholds, when to call the doctor versus going directly to the ER, and how to take a rectal temperature on an infant this small. Developmental milestones at two months. Dehydration signs. Respiratory distress. Safe sleep guidelines. Feeding schedules and volumes. SIDS risk factors.
I answer everything without pausing, because this is what I know. Four years of it. It lives in my hands and my voice, even when nothing else does. This is what I'm still good at.
Maya's expression moves gradually from skeptical to neutral, then settles somewhere approaching satisfaction. She looks at Emma, and something passes between them.