The call comes justpast midnight.
I’m between rounds, catching up on charting, when my phone buzzes on the counter. Willow. A cold weight drops into my stomach. She shouldn’t be calling me at this hour.
Unless something’s wrong. I answer on the first ring.
Her voice is small, rushed. “Declan? I—I can’t get them to move. The babies. It’s been hours. I’ve tried everything—juice, lying on my side, poking—nothing. I’m fixin’ to come in.”
I know better than to lecture her about driving herself right now. “I’ll meet you downstairs,” I tell her, scraping my chair back as I stand. My body knows what to do before my brain does—white coat, stethoscope, badge clipped back in place. The whole sprint down the corridor is one long prayer:Please let them be okay. Please let them move.
She’s pale when she arrives at triage, clutching her stomach like she’s holding the whole world inside her hands. A nurse wheels her in, and Willow melts as soon as she sees me. “Declan,” she breathes, relief flickering across her face. “Thank God.”
I rush to her and cup her jaw in my hands, kissing her cheeks. “You did the right thing calling.” I crouch down, eye level with her, checking her pupils, her lips, her hands—anything to reassure both of us she’s not crashing. “We’ll get them on the monitor right now.”
Her green eyes shine in the harsh fluorescent light. “Are they?—”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” I keep my voice steady, the way I’ve done for countless patients. The way I wish I’d done all those years ago when I was just a teen. When my girlfriend had Aiden dying inside her. Now that I’m back here at this familiar place, I realize what a hard thing it is to be calm inside the fire. I nod to the nurse. “Fetal monitoring, now. Room three.”
Minutes later, she’s on the bed, belly exposed under the thin gown. The elastic bands of the fetal monitor circle her, sensors pressed against the taut curve of her stomach along with gel. Her belly flinches, and I tell her, “Cold, sorry,” without lifting my eyes from the screen.
The machine hums, then beeps. A thin, fragile line draws itself across the page, and I see a heart rate spiking.Ba-bump.It steadies. Willow’s chest deflates with a sob.
“That’s one,” I murmur, adjusting the second sensor. My own heart is running laps, but my hands are steady. They have to be. The second heartbeat joins the first, then the third, overlapping rhythms like three small drums under her skin. The most beautiful percussion I’ve ever heard.
“They’re here,” I tell her quietly, keeping my eyes on the numbers. “Every single one of them. Heart rates are within normal range.”
Her hands fly to her mouth. A tear slips down her cheek as her breathing turns ragged and shallow. “Oh my God. I thought?—”
“Don’t think. Just breathe.” I cup her face in my hands, holding her and staring into her eyes like I can give her peace. She closes her eyes against my stare, and I lean forward and kiss her salty tear-streaked cheeks. “Breathe with me, Willow.”
When she doesn’t respond, her breathing getting wilder by the second, I hold her jawline firmly and model breathing for her. Fearful green eyes look at me like I’m the enemy. She holds my wrists and finally, she breathes with me. As she relaxes, I put my hand on her chest and she droops forward, letting her forehead rest against mine, and I hold that weight there.
“Thank you,” she murmurs sleepily.
The next half hour is a slow vigil. She lies still, clutching the blanket, eyes fixed on the screen. Every time one of the heart rates dips, she stiffens. Every time it rises, she relaxes, only to tense again.
I sit beside her bed, close enough that she doesn’t have to look far to find me. I keep my voice calm, explaining each squiggle, each number.
“That dip there? Normal. Babies roll over, cords shift. It’s not danger unless it stays.”
“This acceleration? That’s good. Means they’re active.”
“See the baseline here? Nice and steady. That’s what we want.”
She listens like it’s gospel, nodding, hanging onto every word.
At one point she whispers, “Declan, what if they stop again?”
I shake my head. “They won’t. Not tonight. Not with me watching.”
Around one a.m., the door creaks open and Sean bursts in, out of breath, hair wild like he ran the whole way from his apartment. “Is she—are they?—”
“Shh.” Willow lifts a hand weakly. “We’re okay. Declan’s got me hooked up.”
Sean edges to the bedside, his hand trembling as he brushes hair off her forehead. “Christ, Willow. Don’t do that to me.”
“It wasn’t on purpose,” she whispers with a faint smile.
“You could’ve called me first.Jaysus, I would’ve driven you.”
