The sirens wailed through the night, cutting sharp arcs of sound across the dark streets, but Zane barely heard any of it. He sat wedged on the narrow bench in the back of the ambulance, knees spread to keep from shaking, hands gripping the metal rail so hard his knuckles were white. Willow lay strapped to the gurney across from him, her body unnaturally still except for the faint rise and fall of her chest beneath the oxygen mask. Two EMTs worked over her with quick, efficient movements that filled the space with clipped phrases he couldn't fully process.
"Twenty-seven-year-old female, approximately thirty-two, maybe thirty-three weeks pregnant—"
"BP is climbing again—"
"Signs of preeclampsia, possible abruption—"
"Get another line in—no, higher—good."
