The pause on the other end stretched into an eternity, heavy with unspoken bad news.
“He’s alive, ma’am. He’s been transported to Mercy General Hospital. But…” The officer hesitated. “He wasn’t alone.”
The final sentence hung in the air, loaded with a weight I couldn’t immediately decipher. He wasn’t alone. Of course he wasn’t. Michael was a sales manager at a luxury dealership. He lived for the deal, for the client.
“Who was he with?” I asked, my voice barely a thread. “A client?”
“We don’t have those details in the preliminary report, ma’am. Just that the passenger was also transported. You need to come to the hospital immediately.”
The line clicked dead.
I stood there, phone still in hand, staring at the fallen onesie. He wasn’t alone. The phrase echoed in the silent room, taking on a darker, sharper contour. A tremor started in my hands and traveled down to my knees.
It wasn’t a client. I felt it in my gut, a sick, heavy intuition that had nothing to do with morning sickness.
Without thinking, I grabbed my purse and car keys. I left the apartment door unlocked. In the elevator, the mirror reflected a stranger: pale face, wide, terrified eyes, and a massive belly that looked like a fragile shield against the storm awaiting me.
Tears came without warning—silent, hot tracks down my cheeks as I navigated the rain-slicked streets of Seattle. Every red light was torture. Every slow car was an enemy.
He wasn’t alone.
I parked haphazardly at Mercy General, the engine still ticking as I ran toward the sliding doors. The hospital was a chaos of white noise—beeps, hurried footsteps, the smell of antiseptic that triggered instant nausea.
“My husband,” I gasped to the receptionist, gripping the counter. “Michael Thompson. Car accident.”
