I reached for my phone on the nightstand, but my fingers brushed the edge and knocked it onto the hardwood floor.

It slid out of reach under the heavy bed frame.

I fell to my knees, the pain in my abdomen tearing me apart.

The blood was everywhere now, soaking through my gray sweatpants and staining the white wool rug.

The cold Colorado wind rattled the windowpane.

I pulled myself toward the hallway, leaving a red trail behind me on the floor.

My strength was completely gone.

My forehead pressed against the cold hardwood floor, and I closed my eyes.

I thought of my sister, Laura, all the way in Phoenix, wishing she were here.

I thought of Ethan, crying in his bassinet, his small voice fading.

The front door suddenly rattled downstairs.

The lock clicked.

I heard heavy, hurried footsteps in the foyer.

“Emma?” a deep, gravelly voice called out.

It wasn’t Ryan.

“Emma, are you here?”

It was Thomas, Ryan’s father.

Ryan hadn’t spoken to him in three years, calling him a relic of the past.

Thomas took the stairs two at a time.

He reached the top landing and stopped, his heavy work boots clicking on the wood.

He saw me.

“Oh, God,” Thomas breathed.

He dropped his keys and knelt beside me in an instant.

His hands were rough and calloused, but his touch was incredibly gentle.

He pressed two fingers to my neck, checking my pulse.

“Postpartum hemorrhage,” he muttered to himself.

His voice was steady, the calm tone of a retired paramedic who had seen this a hundred times.

“I’ve got you, Emma. I’ve got you.”

He reached into his pocket and dialed 911 on his cell phone.

“This is Thomas Parker,” he said clearly into the receiver.

“I have a female patient, twenty-eight, severe postpartum hemorrhage, altered mental status.”

He gave our address without hesitation.