He looks back at me. “Did I miss anything?”
I gawk at him, then shake my head. “No. That was… perfect.”
He grunts. “Let’s get you a room.”
***
The room is too cold, or maybe it’s too hot. I can’t tell anymore.
Everything hurts.
The epidural didn’t come in time due to some complication with anesthesiology, or a staff delay, or a system backlog—none of it matters now. It’s too late.
The contractions have taken over, they’re tidal and brutal and all-consuming. My body’s locked in a rhythm I can’t control, and I amso fucking tired.
They’ve clipped a heart rate monitor to the baby’s scalp, inserted while she’s still inside me. I saw Reid’s face go blank when they did it—when the fetal heartbeat slowed, and the nurse said,“We need to keep a closer eye”in a voice that didn’t fool either of us.
They didn’t call it an emergency, but there is a shift. An edge.
I’ve been in active labor for eight hours now.
Eight. And if one more person tells me tobreathe through it,I’m going to surgically remove their vocal cords with whatever’s sharpest in the damn room.
“Carina.” Reid’s voice is calm, completely unlike me right now. “You’ve got this, baby. You’re the scariest person I know.”
I try to laugh, but it catches halfway up my throat. Everything in me is shaking. My hands and my spine and my resolve.
Another contraction rips through me like a wave I can’t surf, and I brace both elbows against the bed rail, dragging in air through gritted teeth. I want to scream, and I want topush.
Reid’s hand is in mine, thumb stroking the inside of my wrist in rhythmic circles. He’s the only thing in the room more consistent than the monitor beep.
Something shifts low and deep.
“OhGod,” I moan. “I feel like I need to—fuck, I think I need to go. To the bathroom.”
I don’t even finish the sentence before Reid stands up.
“Hey, nurse! She says she needs to—uh—go.”
The nurse moves quickly, snapping on gloves. “Don’t get up, Carina. Let’s just check you first.”
“No, I really—” But I stop, because I know what this means. I know the shift, and I know that when it feels like you’re about to shit yourself, it’s probably not shit. It’s showtime.
The nurse slips her fingers into place and nods sharply. “Fully dilated. You’re ready. Let’s get you into position.”
There’s a flurry of movement, and a second nurse arrives. The OB gets paged. Reid squeezes my hand as they adjust the bed.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs. “We’re almost there, Havoc.”
I nod, but I’m distracted by another sound. A heart rate beeping, but not mine. The fetal monitor skips, stutters, then drops.
The nurse goes still for half a second, then her voice changes. Calmer, but too calm. “Baby’s heart rate is dipping a little with each contraction. We’re going to try a few position changes to get things moving quicker.”
I freeze. “What—what does that mean?”
“It means we need her out soon,” she says. “And you’re going to help us do that.”
My vision tunnels, but Reid is there, crouching beside me now, both hands framing my face. “You’re safe. She’s safe. Just listen to them, okay? We’ve got this.”
