The first sign of trouble came at week thirty-two.

Liora was walking through Brooklyn when she felt the first contraction. Sharp, unmistakable, taking her breath away.

“Not yet,” she whispered, leaning against a building. “It’s too early.”

The contraction passed. Maybe just Braxton Hicks. False labor. Completely normal at thirty-two weeks.

But then another one hit. Stronger.

Liora pulled out her phone with shaking hands and called Saskia.

“I think something’s wrong.”

The emergency room at Brooklyn Methodist was chaos.

Saskia met her there, taking charge immediately. “We need OB. Now. And call Dr. Thorne.”

They got Liora into a bed, hooked up to monitors. The contractions were regular. Every...