People who had laughed moments earlier suddenly looked solemn and concerned.
One paramedic knelt beside me while the other began asking questions.
“Thirty-two weeks?”
“Almost thirty-three,” I whispered.
“Any contractions before the fall?”
“No.”
“Did your water break after impact?”
I nodded.
His eyes flicked toward the blood.
They moved quickly after that.
A cervical collar was placed around my neck as a precaution.
They checked my blood pressure, pulse, and the baby’s heartbeat with a portable monitor.
The room seemed to stop breathing while the paramedic moved the sensor across my abdomen.
Static.
Then nothing.
He adjusted it.
I stared at his face.
“Please.”
He tried another position.
A faint rapid rhythm finally broke through the speaker.
My entire body collapsed with relief.
“That’s your baby,” he said.
“Heartbeat is present, but we need to move now.”
I started crying.
Not because I felt safe.
I didn’t.
But Hannah was alive.
As they prepared the stretcher, Dad stood and faced the room.
“Who saw what happened?”
Nobody volunteered.
Then the blonde woman raised one shaking hand.
Alexis stared at her.
“Megan.”
The woman swallowed.
“I saw it.”
“Shut up,” Alexis hissed.
Dad’s eyes sharpened.
Megan looked sick.
“She poured the gravy on her,” she said.
“Alexis did.
Then she backed up and fell.”
The woman in red grabbed Megan’s arm.
“You don’t need to get involved.”
Megan pulled free.
“We are involved.
We were standing right there.”
The paramedics lifted me onto the stretcher.
As they rolled me toward the door, I heard Dad ask the woman with the phone one more question.
“Were you recording?”
She didn’t answer.
Megan did.
“A few people were.”
Alexis’s face went white.
At the hospital, everything became fluorescent lights, clipped instructions, signatures, monitors, and pain.
Doctors determined that the fall had triggered premature rupture of the membranes and bleeding serious enough to require continuous observation.
They were also concerned about placental injury from the impact.
