Everything happens at once. A painful contraction folds me double. A dull ache drives into my brain until my vision turns blotchy with spots. And my water breaks.

It’s too early.

These are nothing like the Braxton Hicks contractions I got used to. The pain drives me to my knees. Gnashing my teeth together, I wait it out, and when the band of agony lets go, I grab the desk and pull myself up. I use the desk phone to dial the emergency number, inhaling and exhaling while I wait. Just as someone takes the call, the second series of contractions hits.

I clench my teeth and groan.

“Hello?” the operator says. “Can you hear me?”

Please don’t hang up.

Click.

Damn. No! Putting one hand on the furniture, I use the desk, chair, and wall for support to make my way to the lounge. Dizziness slows my progress. My head hurts as much as my abdomen. Just then, Charlie exits the scullery with a basket full of socks.

“Go get Rhett,” I say as calmly as possible, even as every bone in my body is shaking. There’s a good chance I’m going to lose the baby.

Charlie takes one look at me and drops the basket. “Va–Val!”

“It’s okay. Where’s Rhett?” I continue to the kitchen, but another contraction stills me before I can get to my phone that’s lying on the counter.

It hurts like nothing I’ve felt. My head is going to explode. I count through it. One, two, three, four, five. Another few steps. My cry isn’t loud, but it’s a wretched sound. “Rhett?”

He flies from his room, his hair wet and a towel wrapped around his waist. “Val, did you call me?” His eyes fall on the wetness on my legs and feet, and then they grow large.

“The baby,” I whisper, tears dripping from my eyes. “Call an ambulance.”

The thought that runs on repeat through my mind shows in the way he shakes his head in silent denial.

Too early.

We don’t stand a chance with a premature home delivery. If I don’t make it to a hospital on time, my baby is dead. I cry harder as Rhett gets our private ambulance service on the line and gives them our address, but the crying only makes the pain in my head worse. All the while he rubs my shoulder. I’m grateful for that point of human contact. I’m scared to go through this alone.

“They’re on their way,” he says in a clipped voice when he hangs up.

“Call Kris. She needs to stay with Charlie.” I grunt as another contraction pulls my abdomen into a sharp point of pain.

Breathe. In, out. In, out.

While Rhett makes the call to Kris, I speak to Charlie. “I’m going to hospital, like we talked about. You’re going to be all right. Kris is coming to see you. Ask her to cook whatever you like. There’s lots of food in the fridge.”

“She’ll be here as soon as she can,” Rhett says on a huff.

“Can you be brave for me?” I ask Charlie.

“Bra–brave.”

“Good. I love you so, so much.” I want to say more, but I can’t speak through the next contraction. I have to lean on Rhett for support. Impatient for it to lift, I blow out a breath and drag in air. I have little time before the next one comes. “You’ve always been a good, big brother to me, Charlie. Never forget how much I love you.”

“God, Val.” Rhett’s voice is choked. “Don’t talk like that.”

“I’m good.” I give him a reassuring pat on the arm. “I just want him to know.”

“He knows.” Rhett shoots a worried look at Charlie. “How about watching a movie until Kris comes?”

“O–okay.”

As Charlie heads for the cinema room, Rhett carries me to the sofa. He pushes a pillow under my head and strokes my hair. “You’re strong. You’re going to be fine.”

My smile is weak, because my heart is not in it.

Please don’t let my baby die. Please don’t let him pay the price.

Rhett has his phone pressed to his ear when sirens sound in the distance. “Damn you, Gabriel, pick up,” he mutters under his breath.

I don’t know how I feel about Gabriel being here, right now, but this is still his baby, too.

“Quincy?” I offer, grinding my teeth through the pain.

He’s already scrolling through his contact list when the intercom buzzes, but gives up on the call to open the gate from the control panel in the kitchen. Rhett rushes for the door and lets the paramedics in. Despite the fact that he’s still only wearing a towel, he runs next to the stretcher as they wheel me to the ambulance.

He grips my hand. “I’m not leaving your side.”

“No. Stay with Charlie.” He could drown in the pool or explode the gas in the kitchen. There are too many potential accidents waiting to happen in this house. When it looks as if he’s going to argue, I beg. “Please, Rhett.”

Reluctantly, he gives in, but his expression lets me know he’s not pleased.

“I’ll call Quincy,” he calls as the paramedics load me into the back of the ambulance and one of them takes up a position next to me.

We’re speeding off when the medic starts bombarding me with medical questions about my health history and the pregnancy while he listens to my heartbeat and takes my blood pressure. His eyes flare when he reads the gauge.

“Except for the contractions, do you have any other pain?”

“My head hurts.”

“Blurred vision, seeing spots, or sensitivity to light?”

“Spots.”

His frown deepens. “Nausea or vomiting?”

“Nausea, but I’ve been nauseous since the beginning of the pregnancy.”

“Dizziness?”

“Yes.”

He connects me to a tocometer to measure my contractions and tells me he’s sending the information to the hospital ahead of my arrival. He doesn’t say there’s nothing to worry about, and I’m glad he doesn’t give me meaningless reassurance.

Thanks to Gabriel’s private medical insurance, I’ve been pre-admitted for the delivery at the brand-new Broadacres Clinic a short distance away from home. We clear the gates less than twenty minutes later. A male nurse is waiting at the emergency entrance to escort me to an examination room in the delivery wing where an obstetrician takes immediate charge. With him are two nurses. He’s studying a tablet as one nurse helps me undress and pull on the hospital robe while the other prepares a drip. The nurse helps me into a bathroom for a urine sample before leading me to a gynecology chair where the doctor takes a blood sample and does a physical examination. The look in his eyes when he finally lifts his head reflects my fears.

“Mrs. Louw,” he says in a soothing voice, “you’re nine centimeters dilated, and your contractions are two minutes apart. You’re in the active phase of labor. It’s too late for an epidural. We’re going for natural unless there are complications, all right?”

“Can’t you stop the contractions? It’s too early for the baby.”

The way he looks at me is so calm that his next words floor me completely. “You have severe preeclampsia. Are you familiar with the term?”

I frown at him. “Vaguely.”

“Your blood pressure is too high. If you don’t deliver the baby now, you risk developing eclampsia or seizures, which can be life threatening.” He softens the blow with a pat on my leg.

“What?” Shock resonates through me. “My baby! What about my baby?” I bite my lip as pain sharper than before contracts my body.

“We’re going to do our best. The rest is in God’s hands.” There’s a sense of urgency but also confidence in his movements as he starts to prepare, pulling on scrubs and a hair cap. “Can we call someone to be with you?” He glances at the screen of the tablet. “You have only your husband listed.”

The only people I want are Kris and Charlie. They’re the ones who stood by me regardless, who never lied to or deceived me, but this isn’t a situation I can expose Charlie to, and it’s better that Kris takes care of him.

“No,” I say, “there’s no one else.”

“Get the anesthesiologist on standby,” the doctor says to one of the nurses.

The nurse pushes a needle into my arm and connects it to a drip while the doctor takes a seat in front of my bent legs.

“Push when I tell you,” he says. “On the count of three. One. Two. Three!”

The contractions are coming faster and harder. I need all my energy to breathe through them. I don’t have enough strength left to think, let alone to talk, so I put everything out of my mind except the one task required of me––delivering this baby.