"You can."
"But what if?—"
"Emma." I reach over, taking her hand. "You've got this. And I'm going to be right there with you the entire time."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She squeezes my hand hard through the next contraction. I let her, ignoring the fact that she might actually break bones.
We pull into the hospital parking lot twelve minutes after leaving home. Not bad.
"Stay there," I tell Emma, jogging around to help her out.
"I can walk."
"I know. But let me help anyway."
She takes my arm and we make our way inside. The automatic doors slide open and a nurse spots us immediately.
"Labor?" she asks.
"Twins," Emma manages. "Water broke about twenty minutes ago."
"Let's get you checked in."
The next thirty minutes are a blur of paperwork, admission, and getting Emma settled in a delivery room. She's in a hospital gown, hooked up to monitors that track both babies' heartbeats and her contractions.
"Both babies look great," the nurse—Lenore, same one from our ultrasounds—says. "Dr. Martinez is on her way."
Emma's gripping the bed rail through another contraction. I move to her side, taking her hand.
"Breathe," I remind her. "In through your nose, out through your mouth."
"I know how to breathe."
"Just reminding you."
"Stop being helpful."
"Never."
She glares at me, but there's no heat in it. Just fear and pain and determination.
Dr. Martinez arrives, all efficiency and calm competence. "Emma. Miles. Ready to meet your babies?"
"No," Emma says immediately.
"Yes," I correct.
Dr. Martinez examines Emma, checks the monitors, and nods. "You're at six centimeters. We've got a few hours yet. Try to rest when you can between contractions."
"Rest?" Emma's voice rises slightly. "Is she serious?"
"I know it sounds impossible," Dr. Martinez says sympathetically. "But conserve your energy. You'll need it."
Three hours later, Emma's exhausted and in pain and handling it better than I could.
