“She didn’t tell me,” I whispered. “I was in Munich for the turbine installation, and she said everything was fine.”
The doctor stepped closer, his voice dropping into a low, professional register that chilled me more than the freezing wind outside.
“If you had arrived tomorrow, we would be having a very different conversation.”
I felt a cold weight settle behind my ribs, a sudden, sharp realization of how close I had come to losing her.
“Can you treat it?” I asked, my throat dry.
“We started her on broad-spectrum intravenous antibiotics and fluids, but we need to run more blood work to ensure the infection hasn’t reached her bloodstream,” he said.
He turned back toward the curtain, leaving me alone in the middle of the wide, brightly lit hallway.
By two in the morning, they had moved Maya to a temporary holding room on the third floor while we waited for a bed in the maternity recovery ward. The small room was dark except for the green glow of the IV pump and the streetlights outside.
