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She’s exhausted and in pain. Afraid, though she’s trying not to be. And still, she's the one holding me together.

That's who Josie is. It always has been.

I lean close until my forehead touches hers.

“You’re here,” I say quietly. “I’m here. The babies are here. We’re doing this together.”

Her breath shakes. “Together.

Another contraction rises before I can answer, and she crushes my hand hard enough to make my vision flash white.

I don’t pull away.

I wouldn’t if she broke every bone.

When they finally say it’s time to push, the room changes.

I feel it before anyone explains it.

The air sharpens, people move faster, a second team waits near the warmer because twins require more hands, more eyes, more everything.

The doctor’s voice stays calm, but there’s a focus in it that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Josie hears it too.

Her eyes find mine. Her guard slips, and I finally see the fear she's been hiding.

I cup her face. “Hey.”

She swallows. “Hey.”

“You listen to me, okay?”

She gives a tiny nod.

“You’re Josephine Wright,” I tell her, because somehow that feels like the only thing that matters. “You're the most stubborn woman I've ever met, and the toughest by a country mile.”

A weak laugh breaks out of her.

The nurse smiles.

“You built a life here by yourself. You carried our babies when everything was uncertain. You gave me a chance when I didn’t deserve one yet.” Her eyes fill. “So don’t you dare tell me you can’t do this, Doc.”

The contraction comes hard.

She bears down. The whole room moves with her. I don’t know how long it lasts. Time breaks apart into pieces, the doctor's count, Josie's cry, the monitor's rapid pulse.

My own voice saying things I barely remember.

You’re doing it.

I’m here.

I love you.

That’s it, baby.

Again.