Three months passed before he heard anything. He had spent nearly every day at the jail, begging to see her, begging to be allowed to just touch her, just to look at her, to know she was alright. She was carrying his child, and he wouldn't even have the memories of their first ultrasound, first time hearing their baby's heartbeat. That was all supposed to happen when she was let off. He told himself that he had been overconfident; that he should at least be happy she had a lighter sentence. They could have given her the death penalty.

He had the day off that morning, and was sitting in the living room, reading the newspaper. He had a subscription to the New York Times sent to the house; the local paper wasn't informative enough for him. He was barely paying attention when he heard the mail slot click, and only the postman's knock on the door brought him out of his reading. He pulled himself up and went to gather the mail.

Bill. Bill. Junk. Bill. The fifth piece of mail startled him. His name was written in a woman's shaking script, the return address one he had long ago memorized. It was too thick to contain just a letter, and he tore open the envelope with a fervor, walking over to his countertop to lean on it while he read. Four pictures fell onto the counter's unusually clean surface, but he looked first at the letter. Dark spots told him she'd been crying at some point while she'd written it.

Jack,

I miss you so much. I'm going to be staying in a hospital soon, but I'm not allowed to tell you where. They'll read this when I'm done, and if I do, I don't know if they'll let me write another letter.

I had to go for an ultrasound last week, to make sure the baby was alright. My first, the whole time I've been pregnant. I'm due in a month and a half, Jack, and this is my first ultrasound. I found out that we're having a little boy, and they gave me the pictures from the ultrasound, so I thought I'd give them to you for safekeeping. I can feel him moving inside me all of the time now. I can't wait until he's born—just so I can touch him and look at him and know that I have a little part of you with me before they take him.

I'm scared. Not because of the baby, but because I don't know if you'll be there when he's born. I was afraid they'd take him away from me because we're not married. They said they'll contact you when he's born and you can come and get him from the hospital. Promise you'll raise him like you. Promise you'll raise him to be good and patient and caring and a gentleman. Promise you'll tell him about me, and when he starts asking what I did, tell him the truth. You know everything now, and I'm sorry I couldn't tell you myself.

I love you. Will you write to me? Maybe they'll let you write, even if you can't come in and see me. If I can get a letter from you, it will be the next best thing. Jack, I love you so much. Baby loves you, too. He's moving around now, and sometimes I have to stop writing because he kicks me. I'm running out of room. I'll write again as soon as I have a chance.

I love you,

Kate

P.S. I can't think of any good names, so I'll let you name him when he's born.

It took Jack a moment to realize that his own tears were blotting out words on the letter. He wiped his eyes and turned to the four pictures, picking up the one on top of the pile first. Her advanced stage of pregnancy was evident, and he could clearly make out fingers, toes. In the second, the baby looked like he was sucking his thumb. The third was outlined to indicate the baby's gender, a boy, like she'd said. The fourth…his eyes welled up again, and he nearly lost control of himself. It was a picture of Kate, dressed in her orange prison jumpsuit, unbuttoned to show off her bulging belly, and she had one hand under her stomach and one hand over. She was otherwise thin and pale, and her curly hair was so limp, it hung almost lifeless around her face. But she was glowing with motherhood, and her smile made that evident. He wondered who had taken the photograph, but he was glad someone did.

Kate,

Thank you for the letter. I don't know how I'm supposed to wait another month and a half for our baby to come. So…a boy, huh? I hope I don't sound too disappointed when I say I really wanted a little girl—a little miniature version of you, but I'll be happy with a boy too. I promise to take a million pictures and send you the copies. I'm still trying to get to see you. I made some calls, but I don't know if they'll go through with it. I told them that I deserved to see my firstborn child come into the world.

Kate, I want you out of there so badly. I want our son to grow up and have both of us. I don't want to be a single father, Kate. I want to marry you and raise our little boy and get out of this state and go someplace warm and secluded. I want you out of that place, Kate. But I know that's a distant dream, and we'll take things as they come, but I want you to know that I'm doing everything I can to get you out soon. I'm doing my best, Kate, I promise you. I promise that I'll find a way to fix this.

Yours, always, and with all my love,

Jack

He didn't fix it. He had to break his promise. The jail cut off all contact with him, and the guards no longer allowed him into the reception area. He visited the maternity ward of the hospital every day, pressing with the nurses to let him know if a woman named Katherine Austen or Katherine Shephard was admitted. He paced the maternity floor and read the section of the newspaper that gave information about births. It was almost an obsession, becoming a part of his routine. He got up, showered, skipped breakfast, drove to work, checked the maternity ward, performed surgeries, drove to the jail on his lunch break and was turned away yet again, returned to the hospital and did some patient consultation, filled out paperwork, went home, ate dinner, thought about Kate and the baby, took another shower, and went to bed.

He received two more letters from Kate, and then, in what would have been two weeks before her due date, the letters suddenly stopped. The four letters he sent in those two weeks, the last one frantic, were all returned, unopened. His visits to the jail got him only the response, "She's been transported to a hospital."

His doorbell rang on a chilly morning, December 16, 2005. His boss had called the previous evening to tell him that he could have the next few days off, saying that he was concerned about Jack not getting enough sleep.

He saw the woman in the brown suit through the peephole, holding a bundle in her arms. For a moment, he placed his hand on the wooden door, his forehead against the peephole, trying to inwardly calm himself down. When the woman rang the doorbell again, he pulled back and opened the door.

"Dr. Jack Shephard?" She inquired, almost impatiently.

"Yes?"

"Marcia Sutton. I'm the state's representative at Allen Hospital in Waterloo. I've been told to bring your baby here."

She pushed the bundle wrapped in a light blue blanket into his arms. He didn't look at the baby at first, gazing instead at the woman, who was giving him a cold stare.

"How's Kate? Ms. Austen, I mean. Is she alright?"

"I don't know anything except what they told me. I have a copy of his birth certificate. Ms. Austen was still unconscious when they gave him to me, so you will need to fill the rest of it out and have it filed. I'm sure you know where to get all of that taken care of."

She handed a small file to him, and he adjusted his hold on the baby to take it. He frowned, processing what she'd said.

"What do you mean, she was still unconscious when they gave him to you? She hasn't seen him yet?"

"No, not that I know of."

"How old is he?"

"Twenty-seven hours old."

"Jesus," Jack muttered under his breath. He was barely a day old. Was that even legal? He didn't really have anything ready. Not a crib, no diapers, no baby formula. He had held off on buying things because the fact hadn't yet sunk it that Kate wouldn't be here to do it with him. "That's just fucking fantastic. My first child comes into the world and neither his mother nor I get to see it. Great. Just great."

"You know, Dr. Shephard," the woman said, coolly, slipping slightly out of her formal tone. "I don't understand why a seemingly nice man like yourself would go messing around with a criminal. She's a murderer, and you had a child with her. I mean, just because you're a doctor doesn't give you special privileges. You should have known better. Honestly, they could have taken him away, since you aren't even married."

He thought about telling this woman off. He had heard that same story from plenty of people, and he knew that they would never stop. He wanted to scream obscenities at her, give her a serious mouth-off, ask her if she'd ever spent eight months of her life on an island fighting for survival, if she'd ever suffered the way he had in his quest to win Kate's heart, if she'd ever been in love the way he was in love with Kate. Anger coursed through his veins, and a fire burned in the pit of his stomach. And for once, it wasn't fear that he let take over, but the anger. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. And then, to his surprise, it was gone. Still, as he felt the remnants of his anger seeping away, he allowed himself one luxury.

He slammed the door in her face.

He made his way to the couch and sat down, finally allowing himself to look at the face of his son. He put down the folder of files and lay the baby in his lap. His mood instantly improved as he pulled bits of blanket away from the little boy's face. He was still small and a little wrinkly, but Jack thought he was perfect. He had a layer of fine, downy black hair that had a little of Kate's curl to it. His nose was more flat like Kate's, but rounded like a little button nose. Jack reached out almost shyly to touch the little boy's nose. The baby wiggled, yawned, and cracked open his eyes. He felt silly, trying to hide his disappointment. Brown eyes, like his own. Brown eyes that would stay brown eyes, and not become green eyes like his mother's. His skin was soft to the touch, and Jack found, when he touched the boy's cheek with his finger, he made a little whimpering noise and tried to nurse. He let the baby's mouth find his finger, and was almost amused when he began making angry grunting noises when the milk failed to appear.

"Hungry, huh, buddy?"

More whimpering. Jack, instantly alarmed, but more alert, wrapped the blanket around his son tightly, getting up and wrapping him in the large blanket draped over the couch. Jack himself pulled on a heavy coat, before grabbing his keys and carrying his son out to the car parked in the driveway. The social worker's car was nowhere in sight.

As soon as Jack slid into the driver's seat, the baby still in his arms, he realised his predicament. He placed the baby in the passenger seat, buckling the seatbelt. He needed formula, and he need a crib, diapers, a car seat, a high chair for later, toys, clothes. As he sat in the car, a first-time father, alone, save for the tiny day-old baby in the seat next to him. He started, for the second time that day, and for two different emotions, began to count slowly to five, before backing the car out of the driveway and heading for the mall.

People at the mall remarked how tiny his baby looked. Jack lied and told them that he was a week old, that his wife was resting and he'd taken the baby out for some shopping to let her relax. They asked what his name was, and Jack told them that his name hadn't been decided yet. He shyly asked women in the babies' section of the Gap to show him the best clothes for newborns. He picked out a crib, a cherry-wood style that would be delivered the following morning. He bought a car seat, a baby pram, a stroller for when the baby was older. He put some of the clothes on layaway, finding that he couldn't fit half of it in his car.

The trip to the grocery was just as eventful. He bought twelve bags of Pampers diapers and several boxes of baby wipes, Johnson and Johnson's baby lotion and soap, and then quite possibly all of the cans of Similac baby formula, earning a few questioning looks from his fellow shoppers. While he waited in the checkout line, he picked up a small baby name book, hoping that he could find something. He didn't like half of the names, and hated being so picky. But this was his son, and he wanted to find the perfect name.

"He's so small," the woman in front of him commented, breaking him momentarily from his concentration. At the same moment, his eyes landed on the name, "Paul. Means 'small.' The Roman name for Saul, an Apostle, a great missionary." A second name jumped out at him, "Samuel. Old Testament. Hebrew prophet and judge who anointed Saul as king."

Hadn't Kate mentioned her father—or stepfather, really—was named Sam? She'd like that, he thought, when he wrote her and sent pictures of the baby. Paul Samuel Shephard. It was a little old-fashioned, he thought, but he liked it.

The cashier gave him an annoyed look while she rang up all of his items.

"$973.46." She said when she'd finished, snapping her gum. Jack sighed, gazing at his son, who gurgled up at him innocently. After all of the money he had spent in just this first day of parenthood, he wondered just how much he was looking forward to the next 21 years.

They got home by mid-evening, and by now, Paul was cranky. He was clearly hungry and the first thing Jack did after unloading the car was feed him. He burped his son, bathed him, dressed him in the ill-fitting Blue's Clues baby pyjamas, and pushed his own bed against the wall, putting the baby on his back. He didn't trust the baby alone, so he stripped off his jeans and sweater, leaving him wearing a pair of boxers and a t-shirt, and crawled in slowly next to him. He moved closer to watch his son, somewhat concerned about rolling over and suffocating him, but thinking that his natural father's sense, one that he already found himself developing, would take care of that. He was lulled to sleep by Paul's soft breathing.

---

He wanted it to stay like that, peaceful, serene. He should have known better. The first two weeks were hell. The baby cried and was finicky about everything. If Jack removed the bottle before he'd finished eating, Paul refused to eat anymore, and would end up crying later because he was still hungry. Jack would bathe him and he would immediately mess up his diapers right after. His ears were sensitive, and he cried at the slightest loud sound. Jack was overwhelmed and frustrated. He knew it wasn't the baby's fault, but all of Jack's anger was building up, and he knew he had to be careful, or he'd end up hurting Paul. He hammered his brain for a solution before going to the phone, debating with himself for a moment, and then picking it up and dialing. It rang once, twice, three times, until he heard the voice on the other end pick up.

"Hello?"

"Mom? It's me, Jack. I need your help."

His mother arrived two days later, sweeping into his house and looking around disapprovingly. He answered the door with Paul in his arms, screaming from the noise of the doorbell. His mother took the baby in her arms and rocked him, whispering words that Jack couldn't hear. As he watched this first meeting between grandmother and grandson, a thought occurred to him: had his mother ever rocked him like that when he was a baby?

It worked magic, and Paul soon drifted off to sleep. His mother handed the baby back, glaring at Jack.

"When were you going to tell me I had a grandchild?"

"It's been a long year, Mom."

She followed him soundlessly as he went upstairs to put Paul in his cot, shutting the door as he left. She confronted him outside the baby's nursery, her hands on her hips, staring up at him accusingly, and asking a question she most likely already knew the answer to. "Where is his mother?"

"She's in jail, Mom. She's in jail, and she should be here, with me and him."

His mother said nothing for a moment, looking him over.

"Jack, you're a mess.

He took two sleeping pills—smiling at a long-ago memory of Kate drugging him after Boone's funeral—and slept, content with the knowledge that his mother would be there for Paul when he woke up. He slept the best he'd slept in months, without nightmares to get in the way of his dreams: he stood on a sandy beach, his arm around Kate's waist, a raven-haired, chubby-cheeked toddler with jelly on her face making sandcastles while an older boy with the same dark hair splashed happily in the ocean, his laughter bright and happy. Of all the dreams he must have dreamed in the long hours of his slumber, it was that one that remained, constantly clear and always vibrant.