I must have finally been loud enough, or someone noticed movement, because Ryan’s mother turned toward the balcony. Her face changed instantly. She dropped the dish towel and rushed to the door, pulling at the handle.
It didn’t open.
“Melissa!” she shouted. “Why is this locked?”
Melissa appeared from the hallway, suddenly pale. “I—she just stepped out there. I didn’t think—”
Ryan rushed in right behind his father, saw me slumped against the railing, and went white. “Open the door!”
Melissa fumbled with the lock, her hands shaking now. By the time the door slid open, I couldn’t stand anymore. I tried to step forward, but the room spun violently. Ryan caught me as my knees gave out.
“Emma! Stay with me!” he shouted.
His voice sounded distant. I remember his mother touching my freezing hands and gasping. I remember Melissa repeating, “I didn’t know it was that bad,” over and over as if that changed anything.
Then I looked down and saw a damp stain spreading across the front of my leggings.
For one horrifying second, no one moved.
Ryan followed my gaze and froze. “Is that blood?”
His mother started crying. Melissa backed into the wall. Then the pain hit again—deep, brutal, tearing—and I heard myself scream as Ryan grabbed his phone and called for an ambulance.
At the hospital, everything became bright lights, monitors, nurses, rapid questions. How long had I been exposed to the cold? How far along was I? Had I felt contractions before? I answered between breaths while Ryan stood beside me, shaking so badly he could barely hold my bag.
Then the doctor looked up and said clearly, “She’s showing signs of preterm labor.”
