The interior of the ambulance became a small, insulated world of sterile white walls and beeping monitors.

The vehicle began to move, the engine humming as we headed toward the secondary exit.

The pain returned, squeezing my midsection with a force that took my breath away.

I lay back on the thin pillow, the tears finally spilling over my cheeks.

I was alone in the back of the ambulance, heading into the storm.

My husband was a fugitive.

My home was a crime scene.

But as the vehicle turned onto the main road, the sirens wailing against the wind, I felt a strange, quiet calm.

The secret was out.

The fight had begun.

I gripped the metal edges of the gurney, waiting for the next wave.

The radio in the front of the ambulance crackled to life.

The driver’s voice was barely audible over the static.

“We have an update from dispatch,” the driver said.

“They lost him near the bridge,” he said.

The paramedic looked at me, his face grim but steady.

“Don’t worry about that now,” he said.

“We are five minutes from the hospital,” he said.