The paramedic froze mid-motion, his gloved hand hovering just above Sarah’s abdomen.
“What envelope?” he asked, sharper now.
But Sarah had already squeezed her eyes shut again, her face contorting as another wave of pain ripped through her. Her fingers clutched my sleeve like she was trying to anchor herself to something real.
“Sir, we need to move,” the second paramedic said, urgency rising. “We can talk on the way.”
I nodded, but my mind wasn’t in the room anymore.
It was on my phone.
Still vibrating.
My mother’s name flashing again and again.
Diane Carter.
I declined the call.
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.
ADVERTISEMENT
