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.”

Part 3

The words hit the room like an explosion.

Preterm labor. Twenty-eight weeks. Too early—far too early. A cold spread through my body that had nothing to do with the balcony anymore. Nurses moved quickly, attaching monitors, starting IV fluids, giving medication to slow the contractions. One explained they were also giving steroids to help the baby’s lungs in case the labor couldn’t be stopped. I nodded as if I understood, but inside I was unraveling.

Ryan never let go of my hand.