She tottered back to the bed, the aching continuing to intensify. Her skin froze and burned as the air from the vent overhead blew against it. The littlest whisper of touch from the sheets hurt. Allowing her body weight to settle onto her back and buttocks hurt. Air whistling down her scorched windpipe hurt. But nothing hurt as much as her heart, her soul, at the thought of what oxygen deprivation or the virus could do to her unborn baby.

“Hannah,” said Harry, sounding frantic. “What do we do? You can’t go to one of those tents.”

“No,” she murmured. “You’re supposed to stay home if you can.”

“But what if you can’t? Can you go to the regular hospital?” He touched her forehead and recoiled. “You’re burning, Hannah.”

“I’m cold.”

“What will we do?”

“Listen,” she said. She had to stay calm and comfort Harry, and she had to think this through, but trying to focus sent a spear of pain through her head. “Call Natalie.” Once Hannah’s pregnancy was well established, Nia had transferred care back to Natalie Cheema, another of her partners.

Dimly, she heard Harry on the phone, his voice shredded into an urgent splinter-edged bark. She’d been on the receiving end of this call several times before; they had a checklist of questions for the patient or her family to answer, and, based on those answers, they either sent the pregnant patient to the hospital, to a negative-pressure maternity room, or they performed a video evaluation and directed a supply kit to her home. Even with cyanosis, most expectant mothers did well on home oxygen and electrolyte-containing fluids and video evaluations. This method of treatment limited the exposure of the L&D staff and kept enough beds open for the sickest of the sick or for women with complicated pregnancies. Most—but not all—pregnant patients survived.

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.