“Jake!” a nurse shouted from the sliding doors. “We need you in here now!”

I turned and ran through the double doors into the bright, sterile warmth of the hospital.

The floor was slick, grey linoleum, reflecting the harsh fluorescent tubes above.

I followed the trail of the gurney down the long hallway toward Trauma Room 3.

Megan’s face was pale, almost translucent under the white lights.

A team of doctors and nurses in blue scrubs immediately surrounded her bed.

“Fetal heart rate is dropping,” a nurse called out, attaching monitors to Megan’s belly.

“We need a full toxicology panel,” the lead doctor ordered.

“Her vitals are crashing,” another voice shouted.

I stood in the corner of the room, my hands trembling as I watched them work.

“She’s seven months pregnant,” I pleaded to anyone who would listen. “Please save them.”

The doctor looked over at me, his brow furrowed with deep concern.

“What did she ingest?” he asked quickly. “We need to know what we are fighting.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out Megan’s daily pill organizer.