The salt wind hit my face, bringing a brief moment of clarity.

Dozens of police cruisers blocked the access road.

Their red and blue lights painted the corrugated metal walls of the warehouses.

Chloe Vance was being led to a dark sedan.

Her makeup was smeared with tears and dirt.

She saw me and stopped.

“Natalie, please,” Chloe cried out.

“I didn’t want any of this.”

An officer pushed her into the back seat of the car.

The door slammed shut.

I was lifted into the back of the ambulance.

The doors closed, cutting off the sound of the sirens and the wind.

The interior of the vehicle was bright and smelled of antiseptic.

“Blood pressure is dropping,” the paramedic said.

He began hooking up an IV to my left arm.

The needle prick was nothing compared to the cramping in my abdomen.

“How far along are you?” the paramedic asked.

“Thirty-four weeks,” I whispered.

“We need to monitor the baby’s heart rate,” he said.

He placed a cold plastic transducer on my stomach.

For a long second, there was only static.