I stare at her, my eyes feeling like they’ve been scraped with sandpaper. I can’t cry anymore. I’ve cried all the tears within me. I’m aware of Julian’s hand holding mine as he sits on the edge of the bed, of the continued dull cramping in my belly, and all I can think is that I lost the baby.

I lost our baby, and it’s all my fault.

“Where’s Rosa?” My throat is so swollen I have to force the words out. “Is she all right?”

“She’s in the room next to you,” the doctor says softly. She’s unusually pretty, with a pale, heart-shaped face framed by wavy chestnut hair. “Would you like to speak to her?”

“Are they done with her examination?” Julian’s voice is as hard as I’ve ever heard it. His face and hands are clean now—he used bottled water to wipe most of the blood off us before we got out of the car–but his gray jacket is stained brown. I wonder what the doctors think of our appearance, whether they realize that not all of the blood on us is mine.

“Yes, they’re done.” The doctor hesitates for a second. “Mr. Esguerra, your friend said she doesn’t want to press charges or speak to the police, but that’s something we strongly recommend in cases like these. At the very least, she should let our sexual assault nurse examiner collect the evidence. Perhaps you can talk to Ms. Martinez, help us convince her—”

“Do any of her injuries require hospitalization?” Julian interrupts, his hand tightening around my fingers. “Or can she go home with us?”

The doctor frowns. “She can go home, but—”

“And my wife?” He gives the young woman a piercing look. “You’re certain there are no injuries beyond the bruises?”

“Yes, as I explained to you earlier, Mr. Esguerra, all the tests came back normal.” The doctor meets his gaze without flinching. “There’s no concussion or any kind of internal injuries, and there’s no need for a D&C—dilation and curettage—procedure when the loss happens so early in the pregnancy. I recommend that Mrs. Esguerra take it easy for the next few days, but after that she can return to her normal activities.”

Julian glances down at me. “Baby?” His tone softens a fraction. “Do you want to stay here until morning just in case, or would you rather go home?”

“Home.” I swallow painfully. “I want to go home.”

“Mrs. Esguerra…” The doctor places her hand on my forearm, her slender fingers warm on my skin. When I look up at her, she says gently, “I know it’s little consolation for your loss, but I want you to know that the vast majority of miscarriages cannot be prevented. It’s possible that the incident with you and your friend was a factor in this unfortunate event, but it’s just as likely that there was some kind of chromosomal abnormality that would’ve caused this to happen regardless. Statistically speaking, some twenty percent of known pregnancies end in miscarriage, and up to seventy percent of first-trimester miscarriages occur because of those abnormalities—not something the mother did or didn’t do.”