Most—but not all—babies survived.

“Hannah,” Harry said, setting down the phone. His shoulders shook. “Oh, Hannah.”

“Our baby,” she said.

“Not the baby. You.” He faced her. Tears streaked down his face, disappearing into the bristly thicket of his morning stubble. “I can’t—I can’t live without you. Please, Hannah.”

“You don’t have to live without me,” she said gently. She had to pause for breath between the words, but a sense of urgency gripped her: she had to comfort Harry. “You’ll take care of me and the baby, and we will be okay. Go now”—she motioned toward the door—“go on, do whatever Natalie said.”

Harry stumbled out. She focused on breathing, feeling every molecule of air razoring against her trachea on its way down to the swamp of her lungs. She intended to use the pain as a distraction from her fear, but it didn’t work; the pain only amplified her terror, reminding her of what she stood to lose. She’d done better with Harry in the room.

Like a welcome mirage, Harry reappeared, wearing latex gloves and a new mask. A large basket with a wicker handle looped over one of his arms; in the other, he carried a water bottle. From the basket he pulled Hannah’s plushest throw blanket, her foam pillow from their bed, a book from her nightstand, her phone, and an array of smaller items from the bathroom. Kneeling, he placed a straw in her water bottle and held it for her. When she finished drinking, he twisted the top from a little tube of Vaseline and rubbed it gently across her lips. He tucked the blanket around her and eased the pillow under her head and carefully, delicately, brushed her hair off her face. He set up a stool as a nightstand and arranged on it all the toiletry and comfort items, lining them up in a regimented circle along the perimeter: Harry’s little army of bedside sentries.

She waited as he performed these ministrations. When he’d run out of items to distribute, he slumped back on his heels. “I spoke with Dr. Cheema.”

“What did she say?”

“She’s coming herself—”

“No!”

“No, honey, it’s okay,” he said. “She’s only a minute away, closer than an ambulance. She’s bringing a pulse ox and electrolytes and an oxygen tank and medicine and a—one of those belts or wands that monitors the baby’s heartbeat, or contractions, or whatever. She said you’d know what to do with it. She’s going to leave the stuff on the porch. If your oxygen level is low after the face mask or the baby looks bad or you get worse, then we call 911 and they’ll take you to the hospital—not the tent; she said because you’re pregnant, they can’t take you there—and she’ll make sure nothing bad happens to you or the baby.”