Name him.

A wave of something blew through her. What emotion was that? Grief? Pain? Longing? How could she name a child she would never hold, and child she would most likely never see?

"August," she said, struggling against a choking feeling in her chest to force the words out. "I — I'm not sure I can."

But on the other hand, how could she not? Of course August would be perfectly capable of naming a child without her help; he was no imbecile. But how could she leave today with the knowledge that the child, her child, existed somewhere in the world, alive and well and growing, and not even know what to call him?

But that way of thinking would only lead to pain. This child was not hers. She may have born it for nine months, but she could not mother it, could not care for it. There was nothing more that she could give this infant other than what she had given him already, and any interaction she did have in its life would only be to its detriment. This was August's child. August could give him so much more than she ever could, and there would be no benefit in thinking of this boy as hers.