The engine was idling loudly.

The back doors were wide open, a paramedic standing inside, gesturing for me to hurry.

I sprinted across the sidewalk, stepping in a puddle, and leaped into the back of the vehicle.

The paramedic slammed the doors shut behind me.

The lock engaged with a heavy, final thud.

Immediately, the siren wailed, a high-pitched scream that filled the tight space.

The ambulance lurched forward, throwing me onto the bench seat opposite Megan.

She was lying on the gurney, a plastic oxygen mask strapped over her nose and mouth.

Her eyes were closed, her eyelids fluttering.

Her face was the color of chalk.

“Megan,” I said, grabbing her hand.

Her fingers were ice cold.

The female paramedic was already spiking an IV bag, her movements fast and practiced.

“Her pressure is still dangerously high,” she said over the noise of the siren.

“We’re giving her magnesium sulfate to prevent seizures.”

“Is the baby okay?” I asked, my voice cracking.

“We need to get her to the OB triage first,” she said, not looking at me.

“We’ll monitor the fetal heart rate as soon as we arrive.”