Chapter 5
The lock released before I finished speaking.
Tori opened the door, saw the water spreading across the linoleum, and reached for the radio clipped to her pocket.
"Wheelchair to room four," she said, her voice sharp and entirely practical. "Call an ambulance. Thirty-seven weeks, water broken, contractions five minutes apart."
Someone had finally described what was happening without calling it a symptom.
I didn't answer.
I stood by the narrow window, waiting through another wave of pain, keeping my breathing even and controlled.
Three minutes later, Dr. Keene appeared in the doorway, still wearing the cashmere sweater from our interview.
He stopped when he saw the water on the floor.
His expression shifted for less than a second—a brief, sharp flick of frustration that vanished behind his usual professional mask.
"Tori," Dr. Keene said smoothly. "Call them back. Tell them she's being moved privately."
Tori's hand remained frozen around her radio.
She looked from Dr. Keene to the door, then down at my shoes.
"The dispatcher already logged the call," Tori said.
Her grip tightened around the radio.
"They're ten minutes out."
"I'm not waiting for one of Graham's cars," I said, stepping past the bed. "If something happens to my daughter while you keep me here, you'll have to explain it when they arrive."
Dr. Keene turned his cool, gray eyes toward me.
"The psychiatric hold remains in place, Merritt. One of our staff will accompany her."
"She can remain under observation at Fairmont," Tori said, stepping between us before Dr. Keene could block the doorway. "But she can't deliver here."
Before Dr. Keene could answer, the distant wail of a siren cut through the winter twilight, echoing sharply against the iron gates outside.
Tori didn't look at Dr. Keene again.
She turned and stepped out into the hallway to meet the EMTs.
Two paramedics with a rolling stretcher pushed through the double doors a minute later.
The lead paramedic took one look at my posture, checked my wristband, and moved the stretcher beside the narrow bed.
"Transfer to Fairmont University Hospital?" the paramedic asked, looking at Tori.
"Yes," Tori said.
"No," Dr. Keene corrected, raising his voice just enough to command the room. "This patient requires transport to our private partner hospital in King of Prussia."
"The dispatcher said Fairmont University Hospital," the paramedic countered, his tone hardening as he locked the stretcher wheels in place. "We take thirty-seven-week patients to the nearest maternity ward. That's policy."
He gestured for me to sit on the stretcher.
I climbed onto the narrow mattress, the crisp paper crinkling beneath my coat.
The paramedic asked for my obstetrician's name, my due date, and whether I had felt Della move that afternoon.
I answered every question before the next contraction stole my breath.
"My phone was taken from me," I said when he reached for the medication list. "Please put that in your report. And please call Dr. Renata Saye at Fairmont. She knows my pregnancy."
He wrote it down without looking toward Dr. Keene for permission.
It was the first record created that day that Graham had not arranged in advance.
As the paramedics wheeled me out of room four and down the pale green corridor, I caught sight of the maple reception desk.
Hanging from a hook beneath the counter was a clear plastic property bag.
Inside were my wallet, my coat, and the velvet box containing the silver rattle.
My phone wasn't there.
Graham still had it.
I lifted a hand toward the bag.
Before I could call out, another contraction folded me over.
The paramedic steadied my shoulder and kept the stretcher moving.
By the time I could breathe again, the locked doors were closing behind us.
Della's name disappeared behind the glass.
The heavy iron security gates swung wide as the amber lights of the ambulance flashed against the brick facade.
Dr. Keene stood by the glass entrance, watching us load into the back of the vehicle.
He didn't look defeated.
He looked like a man who had already made a phone call while Tori was talking to the dispatcher.
The doors slammed shut, cutting off the cold December wind.
Inside the cramped cabin, the paramedic strapped the blood pressure monitor around my arm and placed an oxygen mask near my face.
"Stay with me, Merritt. We're twelve minutes from Fairmont," he said, pressing a small monitor against my stomach.
A heartbeat filled the ambulance—fast, faint, but there.
I closed my eyes.
For one second, the whole world narrowed to that sound.
Then it slowed.
The paramedic moved the monitor and tried again.
The beat returned, weaker than before.
"What's happening?" I asked.
He grabbed the radio.
"Tell Fairmont the baby's heart rate is dropping."
He struck the wall behind the driver.
The paramedic kept one hand on the monitor and one on the rail beside me.
No one asked Graham what should happen next.
"Lights and sirens. Now."