Hard.
The ride to the hospital blurred into fragments—sirens screaming, the medic calling out vitals, Sarah’s strained breathing counting seconds between contractions or spasms or something worse.
I sat beside her, holding her hand, but my thumb kept brushing against my phone screen.
That second name.
Dr. Melissa Crane.
And what Sarah had labeled her:
EMERGENCY IF DIANE INTERFERES
My stomach turned.
“Sarah,” I said quietly, leaning close so only she could hear, “what envelope?”
Her lips trembled. For a moment, I thought she wouldn’t answer.
Then she whispered, barely audible over the siren:
“Test results.”
My chest tightened.
“What kind of test results?”
Her eyes opened just enough to meet mine.
“The baby’s.”
