Excerpt from Tilt by Emma Pattee, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Spencer!" his mother hisses, and then to me, "So sorry." Her eyes are flat and dark and they don't move with her mouth. The boy wipes his bangs out of his eyes and stares straight into my stomach as if he is making eye contact with you. He doesn't look sorry at all. "Spencer," his mother says again, all snap and spit. But this kid is gonzo, totally spaced-out. He reaches out his little hand and puts it on my belly.

"There's a baby in there," Spencer says, in that profound way little kids say shit. His mom has gotten a hold of him now and she yanks him to the side like he's a sheet on a clothesline. I'm sorry, she mouths. Like her sorriness is a secret we moms share between ourselves.

Your kid is a weirdo, I want to tell her. But I force myself to smile and shake my head, like it's no big deal, like I just can't get enough of little Spencer, because I'm clearly ABOUT TO BE A MOTHER so I must LIKE KIDS. I mean, what do I know? Maybe you're a total weirdo too, and I'll chase you around stores with my eyes all dark and tired, mouthing so sorry so sorry to everyone we see.

And then of course the crib isn't there. AISLE 8, BIN 31. An empty rack. No crib. So now I'm standing at the customer service desk, pleading with the disinterested girl in the yellow shirt, who keeps telling me there are three cribs left in stock.

"The rack is empty," I say.

"You're sure it was bin thirty-one?"

I nod. "I checked it twice."

"Aisle eight?" She looks at me like I am the sixth-dumbest person she's ever encountered. Her hair is cut in a sharp bob on one side, so blonde it is white; on the other side, her head is shaved. She has long acrylic nails painted in pink cheetah print that she keeps clicking against the desk.

"Aisle eight."

"The system says there should be three. Must be in someone's cart already." She shrugs and turns around, dismissing me. On the back of her yellow shirt is Hej! in big blue letters.

Of course. Of course your crib is in someone else's cart. The one time I'm able to make a decision, the one time I actually can get it together to do THE RIGHT THING, to drive all the way here and heave myself up the stairs and down the stairs, and now when your father gets home from the cafe, there won't be a newly built crib in your nursery, there will just be an empty room.

"When will you get more in stock?"

"It could be weeks," the girl says. "They come from, like, China." As if I didn't know that. As if I thought an egalitarian middle-aged Swedish man was sitting in a workshop sanding my fucking crib.

"I don't have weeks." This is the moment where I'm supposed to nod and say thank you and shuffle off. I know that. I'm not stupid.

"That's why we recommend buying cribs and other nursery items as early as possible, to avoid stock issues like this." Her foundation is thick and slightly orange, and when I look closely, I can see the sponge lines streaking softly across her cheeks.

Oh, give me a break. Like I've spent the last nine months just lying around eating croissants and coming up with baby names.

"We do have other crib models in stock." I swear to god she smirks at me. How old is she? Twenty-two?

"Is there someone you can call? Like a manager I can talk to? Who could triple-check?" I need that crib. You are meant to have that crib.

She sighs heavily. "Okay, umm, how about I go take another look," she says. "Just in case."

"It's the birch one ..." My palms are sweaty against the edge of the desk. If I don't hold on tight, I might just slide off and fall onto the ground. Never get up again.

"I know which one."

"With the rails."

"Yes, I'm familiar," she says, all snippy. "Just wait right here." She walks away, leaving me standing, swaying, against the customer service desk. No fucking rush, I want to scream at her yellow back.

Excerpted from Tilt by Emma Pattee. Copyright © 2025 by Emma Pattee. Excerpted by permission of Simon & Schuster. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.