“Call an ambulance. Now.”
Brittany wandered in holding her new phone. “Can’t you just drive her? An ambulance costs—”
“Give me the phone.”
She hesitated.
I snatched it from her hand and dialed emergency services myself.
While I described Emily’s symptoms, Kayla turned down the television. Lily stood beside the couch, still holding a slice of pizza, looking less frightened than inconvenienced.
Not one of them asked whether the baby was all right.
Not one.
The paramedics arrived within nine minutes. To me, it felt like nine years.
They placed Emily on a stretcher, attached a blood-pressure cuff, and began asking questions.
“How long have you been having contractions?”
“I don’t know,” Emily whispered. “Maybe an hour.”
My head snapped toward her.
An hour.
She had been standing in that kitchen, washing my family’s dishes while contractions tightened around our unborn son.
“Any bleeding?”
“No.”
“Have you eaten today?”
