The woman who had worried about amniotic fluid touching her shoes was now barefoot on the patio, one hand braced against the glass frame.
My father had come outside behind her.
Neither tried to stop us.
Inside the helicopter, everything narrowed into sound, straps, lights, gloved hands, and fear.
A medic secured me while the other spoke into his headset.
The engine changed pitch beneath us.
Then I heard Ethan’s voice.
It came through a headset the medic held near my ear.
“Amelia.”
Just my name.
I started crying harder.
“Ethan.”
“I’m here.”
“You’re not here.”
It came out more frightened than angry.
“I know,” he said softly.
“But I’m with you.
The crew has you.
They’re taking you directly where you need to go.”
The helicopter lifted.
Through the window, my parents’ house dropped beneath us.
“How did you know?” I asked.
“You called me earlier and didn’t answer afterward.
I couldn’t reach you.
Then I got the emergency notification from the medical contact system we set up for the pregnancy.
I called your parents.
Your mother told me you were having contractions but said there was no reason to panic.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course she had minimized it even to him.
Ethan continued, his voice changing just slightly.
“Then she said you were on the kitchen floor.”
That was all he needed.
His company maintained emergency aircraft and crews for exactly this kind of situation.
A medical team was already positioned within range.
Ethan had made one call through his operations network, explained that his thirty-five-week-pregnant wife was in active distress, and the crew launched.
He hadn’t sent the helicopter to prove he was rich.
He had sent it because I needed help.
That difference would matter later.
At the hospital, everything accelerated.
Doctors met us on arrival.
Monitors were attached.
Questions came faster than I could answer them.
Someone told me my labor was progressing and that because the baby was early, the neonatal team was being alerted.
The words “five weeks premature” had sounded frightening when Ethan and I had discussed possibilities with my doctor.
Hearing them while lying beneath hospital lights was something else entirely.
I wanted Ethan.
Not his aircraft.
Not his company.
Him.
“He’s trying to get back,” one of the flight medics told me before leaving.
“Operations is arranging everything they can.”
I nodded.
Then my mother appeared at the doorway.
She had put her shoes back on.
My father stood behind her.
For once, neither entered as though they belonged wherever they chose to stand.
