You’ll survive a few minutes.
The door opened before I could answer. Jacob stepped inside.
He looked destroyed.
His hair was disheveled, his eyes red, his dress shirt wrinkled as though someone had been clutching it. The moment he saw me awake, he stopped in the doorway and covered his mouth with one hand.
“Emma,” he whispered.
I had imagined, in some faint place between unconsciousness and waking, that I would collapse into him. That I would cry against his chest and let him hold me.
But when I saw him, something colder than the balcony floor settled inside me.
Because he had spent years telling me Brenda was just difficult.
Just blunt.
Just protective.
Just Brenda.
And I had almost lost my child because no one wanted to name cruelty when it was standing in the middle of the room.
Jacob came to my bedside, tears spilling down his face.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know. Dad and I were downstairs longer than we thought. When we came back, Brenda said you were lying down in the bedroom.”
My lips parted.
“She said what?”
His face twisted.
“She told us you felt overwhelmed and went to rest. Mom said we should leave you alone.” His voice broke. “Then Lily started screaming that you were outside. I ran to the balcony and you were—”
He could not finish.
I remembered Lily’s little face at the glass.
My eyes burned.
“Where is Brenda?” I asked.
Jacob looked away.
“Down the hall. With my parents.”
A laugh escaped me, brittle and awful.
“Comforting her?”
“No,” he said quickly. “No, Emma. They’re horrified.”
“Are they?”
He flinched.
I wanted to believe him. Some part of me still did. But pain has a way of clearing smoke from a room. It shows where everyone was standing when the fire started.
Before either of us could say more, the door opened again.
A doctor entered, followed by a second nurse and a woman in a navy blazer with an ID badge clipped to her pocket. The doctor was in her forties, with tired eyes and a calm expression that made me nervous.
“Mrs. Hale,” she said, “I’m Dr. Mason. I need to discuss some test results with you.”
Jacob straightened.
“Is the baby okay?”
“For now, yes. But there are concerns.”
My fingers tightened around the blanket.
Dr. Mason glanced at the woman in the blazer.
“This is Dana Morris, the hospital social worker. Because of the circumstances of your admission, we’re required to document what happened and make certain reports.”
Jacob’s face paled.
“Reports?”
Dr. Mason looked at him, then back at me.
“Emma, you were brought in with mild hypothermia, significant stress response, and preterm contractions. That alone is serious. But your bloodwork showed something else.”
The room went silent except for the monitor.
“What?” I asked.
Dr. Mason’s voice remained careful.
“There were traces of misoprostol in your system.”
I stared at her.
The word meant nothing to me at first. It sounded clinical, distant, harmless.
