EMERGENCY!

11:07 P.m.

The hospital doesn’t sleep-it hums.

Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, flickering just enough to make everything feel unsteady. The air smells sharp, like bleach and something sterile that clings to the back of the throat. A monitor beeps beside the bed, slow and steady, like it’s trying to convince everyone in the room to stay calm.

Eve grips the thin hospital blanket in her fists.

Eighteen weeks.

The number sits heavy in her chest.

A nurse adjusts something on IV pole. “Try to relax,” she says softly, but her eyes don’t quite match her voice.

Relax.

Eve lets out shaky breath that almost turns into a laugh. “My water broke,” she whispers. Saying it out loud makes it worse- more real. “How am I supposed to relax?”

The nurse pauses, then places a hand briefly on Eve arm. “The doctor will be back soon.”

The door closes behind her with a quiet click.

And just like that, Eve is alone with- the machines and the pressure building in her chest.

11:19 P.M.

Two hours away, Eb leans against the hood of a car, the metal still warm from the engine. Music pulses behind her, bass vibrating through her ribs. Someone laughs too loud. Someone else calls her name.

Her phone buzzes.

Again.

And again.

Her smile fades.

“Yo, you good?” her friend asks.

Yeah…. yeah, hold on.”

She answers.

“Hey, what’s-“

It’s Rob. Not Eve.

His voice is tight. Controlled.

Eb straightens. “Why do you have her phone?”

A pause.

The music behind her suddenly feels too loud, too wrong.

“She’s in the hospital.”

Everything inside Eb drops.

Not Eve.

Not again.

“What?” Her voice comes out sharper than she means it to.

“She’s- “He exhales sharply. “Her water broke.”

The words don’t make sense at first. They hover, unreal.

Images flash in her head- Eve laughing, Eve tired, Eve holding her stomach like she already knew that baby.

“She’s only eighteen weeks,” Eb says, like saying it out loud will fix it.

Eb presses the phone harder against her ear, like she can force better news through it.

“I know. But listen-“

Eb presses the phone harder to her ear, her heart pounding so loud she can barely hear him.

“The baby’s okay,” he says. “And so is she.”

Her knees almost give out.

She turns away from everyone, pressing her free hand to her mouth.

“Okay,” she whispers, tears already burning her eyes. “Okay… I’m coming.”

She doesn’t say goodbye.

Because that’s her sister.

11:32 P.M.

Eve stares at the ceiling tiles.

A crack runs through one of the tiles, thin lines branching out like something trying to break through. She traces it with her eyes, trying not to think about what’s happening inside her body.

The door opens.

A doctor steps in with the nurse behind him. Calm. Careful.

Eve pushes herself up, wincing slightly. “Just tell me.”

He nods. “You experienced preterm premature rupture of membranes,” There is very little amniotic fluid right now.

Her stomach drops.

“But,” he adds quickly, “we did find a heartbeat. Strong and steady.”

Her breath catches.

“The baby is still okay,” he says. “And you are stable. This is serious, but right now, we monitor. Hour by hour.”

Hour by hour.

Not a promise.

But something.

Eve’s hand moves to her stomach, resting there lightly.

For a second-

she thinks she feels something.

Or maybe she just needs to.

“Okay,” she whispers

11:42 P.M.

Eb’s car cuts through the dark highway.

Headlights stretch endlessly ahead. The road hums beneath the tires, steady, constant.

Her hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles pale.

Two hours.

Too far.

Too long.

Her chest aches in a way she can’t fix.

Her phone sits in the cupholder, silent.

“Stay okay,” She mutters, her voice breaking. “Please…. just stay okay.”

She blinks hard, but the tears come anyway, slipping down her cheeks.

“I should’ve been there,” she whispers. “I should’ve never been this far.”

The words sit heavy.

Useless.

So she does the only thing she can.

She keeps driving.

And under her breath-

she starts to pray.

12:03 A.M.

The machines fill the room with their quiet rhythm.

Eve closes her eyes, holding onto the small piece of hope the doctor left behind. Not certainty. Not safely.

Just now.

Her finger rests over her stomach, barely pressing.

“I’ve got you,” she murmurs.

The lights buzz overhead. The air still smells sharp and clean.

Nothing is certain.

Then-

footsteps.

Fast. Unsteady.

The door swings open.

“Eve-“

Eb’s. voice breaks.

The second she sees her, something in her face collapses- fear, relief, guilt, all at once.

She crosses the room in seconds, grabbing Eve’s hand like she might disappear.

“I’m here,” she says, breathless, tears already falling. I made it.”

Eve lets out a soft, shaky laugh. “You made it…”

Her voice cracks. “What about your trip?”

“I don’t care, Eb says immediately, shaking her head. “I’m not leaving you.”

She squeezes her hand tighter, like she’s trying to make up for the distance, for the time she wasn’t there.

Behind her, Rob steps in, his hand settling gently on Eve’s shoulder. Their mother moves to the other side, steady and quiet, like she’s holding the room together.

For a moment, no one speaks.

Just the machines.

Still here.

Their mother reaches out first, placing her hand over Eve’s, over her stomach. “Let’s pray.”

Eb nods quickly, wiping her face with the back of her hand. Rob lowers his head.

Eve exhales as they gather around her.

Four hands become five.

“Please,” her mother whispers, voice thick but steady. “Watch over my daughter….and my grandchild. Give them strength. Give them time.”

Eb squeezes her eyes shut. “Please… don’t take them from us.”

Rob’s voice is quiet. “Protect my family.”

Eve doesn’t speak.

She just feels them.

All of them.

The fear is still there- but it doesn’t feel as heavy.

Her fingers tighten slightly, holding on – to them, to this moment.

“Stay with me” she whispers.

Maybe to the baby.

Maybe to all of them.

The machines keep their steady rhythm.

The lights still buzz.

Nothing is promised.

But now –

they’re together.

And for the first time since midnight,

she feels like she can breathe.