“You need to stay alive.”
The words scare me enough to make me listen.
Stay alive.
For the baby.
For Yaromir.
I close my eyes, and the second I do, I see him. Standing in front of the fire. Carrying me upstairs. Looking at me over breakfast like he wants to say no to the whole world on my behalf. His hand at my stomach in bed sometimes, casual, possessive, not knowing what rests beneath it.
I was going to tell him. I was going to find the right moment, the right words, something that wouldn’t make him lock every door between me and the sky.
Now I might die before I say it.
“No,” I whisper.
The man’s hand presses harder to my wound. “Stay awake.”
“I am.”
“You’re closing your eyes.”
“They’re heavy.”
“Open them.”
I try. The sky swims.
Somewhere far away, sirens begin to wail. The sound moves closer, thin at first, then louder, bouncing off the the river. The man looks toward the road and raises one arm.
“Here!” he shouts. “Over here!”
Footsteps pound. Voices.
A woman kneels beside me in a bright jacket, her hands already moving. Someone cuts open my coat. Another person shines a light in my eyes. “What’s your name?”
“Anya,” I say.
“Anya, can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been shot. We’re going to help you.”
“My baby,” I say immediately.
The paramedic pauses only for a fraction of a second. “You’re pregnant?”
“Yes.”
“How far along?”
“I don’t know.”
“When was your last period?”
“I don’t know. Late. I just found out.” My voice breaks. “Please, my baby.”
