Page 98 of The Best Shot

“You can fight the bill later.” I kept my voice level. “Seven months pregnant, alone, contractions every few minutes? You call. You fight the bill after. You don’t hedge on this.”

She gasped.

Another contraction.

“Oh God.”

“Slow breath in,” I said. “Slow breath out.”

I could see the parking lot through the trees now. A gray strip of asphalt far below.

Still too far.

“CeeCee.”

“Yes?”

“I’m a little far away right now, but I’m on my way. I’m going to call an ambulance and then I’ll call you right back.”

“Okay,” she said finally. Small. Frightened.

“You won’t be alone,” I said.

Silence.

“CeeCee. I promise.”

“Okay,” she said again, her voice cracking.

I hung up and dialed 911. Gave them her address, her condition, the frequency of the contractions. The dispatcher confirmed they were sending someone, and I ended the call.

I was running now, camera bag bouncing against my hip. My lungs were starting to burn.

A mile left to the car. Forty minutes to the hospital from there, minimum.

Fuck.

I straightened up, phone already in my hand.

My thumb hovered.

Then I hit call.

He answered on the fourth ring.

“It’s CeeCee,” I said. “Where are you?”

The ER doors opened before I’d fully stopped moving.

I was still keyed up from the run, from forty minutes of highway with my hands tight on the wheel and the radio off because I couldn’t process sound. There was gravel dust on my jeans from where I’d half-slid down the path.

The desk nurse looked up.

“CeeCee Valentine,” I said. “Seven months pregnant. Contractions.”

“Room six.” She gestured down the hall. “Are you⁠—”

I was already moving.