“Absolutely,” I say, already moving toward the bay doors. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”
The siren wails to life as we pull out. Not because it’s an emergency. Because I refuse to get stuck behind a tractor on Main Street.
Sadie sits beside me in the passenger seat of the fire engine, one hand gripping mine between contractions.
“This is excessive,” she mutters.
“You’re delivering my daughter.”
“I’m aware.”
“You okay?”
She exhales slowly. “I’m fine.”
“You’re sure?”
She squeezes my hand harder. “Levi.”
“Yeah?”
“Drive.”
I hit the siren again. The town parts for us like we’re responding to a blaze. In a way, we are.
At the hospital, everything blurs into motion and bright lights and nurses guiding her onto a bed while I refuse to let go of her hand.
“You need to breathe,” she says between contractions, glaring at me.
“I am breathing.”
“You’re hyperventilating.”
“I’m fine.”
She grips my collar and pulls me closer.
“Look at me,” she orders.
I do.
“I’ve got this,” she says firmly.
“I know.”
“Stop looking like someone’s about to light you on fire.”
I huff a shaky laugh. “You are.”
She smirks despite the pain. “Still dramatic.”
Hours blur together. I stay right there. Counting breaths. Brushing damp hair from her forehead. Whispering nonsense in her ear just to keep her focused on my voice.
“You’re incredible,” I tell her at one point.
“Obviously,” she pants.
The moment the doctor says, “One more push,” my heart lodges in my throat.
