The last thing I saw was Ethan’s face, pale and determined, lowering toward me as the nurses began to pump air into my lungs.

The cold air of the operating room hit my bare shoulders.

Someone pressed a plastic mask over my face.

“Breathe, Hannah,” Ethan’s voice came from far away.

I sucked in the sweet, metallic taste of anesthesia.

The monitors beeped at a frantic, terrifying speed.

Then, there was nothing but a heavy, gray silence.

A sudden pressure in my abdomen jerked me back toward the light.

I heard the wet, sharp sound of suction.

“First baby is out,” a doctor said.

A tiny, fragile wail pierced the hum of the machines.

It sounded like a wet kitten.

“A boy,” Ethan whispered.

His voice trembled, a sound I had never heard from him before.

“Clamp and cut,” he ordered.

More pressure followed, deep and pulling.

“Second baby,” another voice called out.

This cry was softer, almost a gasp.

“A girl,” Ethan said.

The monitors began to slow their frantic beating.

My chest felt lighter, though a dull ache burned below my ribs.