She barely dares admit it—that superstition again—but this time feels different: firmer, safer, more secure. And it can’t be just her imagination. They have already passed their own personal danger zone. The last two babies have not made it this far. The first—two years after Phoebe had been born—made it to eleven weeks. The bleeding had started four days before they were due to have their twelve-week scan, a cruel fact that at the time had compounded Lily’s grief. If only, she had silently wished, she had been able to see her baby once, even on a screen. But then the second baby, three years later, had made it to twelve weeks and Lily had seen it on the screen, had watched it stretch its legs and unfurl its fingers, had counted the vertebrae of its spine and seen the four chambers of its heart beating out a perfect rhythm of life. She had looked at the black-and-white video footage of her baby and had fallen in love. And when, two weeks later, that baby, too, had been scraped out of her uterus after the spotting had turned to bleeding and the bleeding had led her to the hospital, she had wondered whether the pain wasn’t infinitely more acute having seen that tiny, perfectly formed creature on-screen. A baby who no longer existed beyond half a dozen grainy fetal photographs.

But this baby has already made it so much further. This baby—she can feel it—is a survivor. Five years since she last miscarried, Lily feels certain this pregnancy is different.

A piece of music begins to play on the radio: “Soave sia il vento” from Mozart’s Così fan tutte. Lily automatically turns toward Daniel just as he turns to her. They smile, remembering their wedding, where a trio of operatic friends had performed the piece during the signing of the register.

Daniel’s focus returns to the road but Lily gazes at his profile. Two days of stubble shadow his strong square jaw, long eyelashes frame his deep brown eyes. He is handsome, and she is grateful for his patience, his kindness, his understanding.

The weekend away had been his idea. He hadn’t told her about it until Friday morning. Pack a weekend bag, Lil. I’m collecting you from the office at four. It’s all arranged with your PA. Your mum’s looking after Phoebe until Monday. Two nights away, just the two of them: a weekend to celebrate the baby who has given them cause for hope.

Lily turns to look out of the window at the miles of yellow rapeseed carpeting the fields. She rests her head against the glass, closes her eyes, feels the warmth of the sun on her face. She is not aware of drifting off to sleep, will not remember until later the dreams she had of a baby swimming underwater, its eyes open, gliding like a fish toward her, yet always out of reach.

It is not the dream that wakes her. It is the thump of two heavy objects colliding. The sound of tires screeching, metal crunching, Daniel swearing.