“Now ask me what the only thing was that saved me from dying of anaphylactic shock.” My heart pounds painfully hard. I whisper, “Epinephrine.” Holding my gaze, he nods. I shut my eyes and bury my face in my hands. Then his arms are around me, pulling me close. Into my ear, he says, “We should name the first baby Epi.” My laugh is part sob. “That’s sick.” He pretends to be serious. “You’re right. How about Nephrine? Epine? Rin?” “Oh God. We’re both going to hell.” “For sure. We’ll have front row seats.” His voice warms. “But we’ll be together.”
