Two nurses were standing by her bed, adjusting an intravenous drip.

Megan lay under the white sheets, her face the color of chalk.

Her dark hair was damp and matted to her forehead.

“Jake,” she whispered, her voice cracked and weak.

“They’re trying to take me.”

I rushed to her side, grabbing her hand.

Her fingers were freezing, shaking violently against mine.

“I won’t let them,” I said, kissing her forehead.

“I’m right here.”

“It hurts, Jake,” she gasped, her eyes widening with sudden panic.

She gripped my hand with surprising strength, her knuckles turning white.

“My stomach,” she groaned, twisting her body slightly to the side.

“It feels like it’s burning.”

One of the monitors beside the bed began to beep in a rapid, uneven rhythm.

The green line showing her heart rate spiked sharply.

“What’s happening?” I asked, looking at the nurse.

The nurse did not answer; she was staring at the fetal heart monitor.

The second line, the one tracking the baby’s heartbeat, was dropping fast.

The numbers on the screen flashed red, falling from one hundred and forty down to ninety.