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I can’t argue with that.

Mom rests a hand against my shoulder while Emma thanks Biddy and promises the picture is going home with us.

“You doing all right?” Mom asks me.

I look at Emma as another contraction builds, then at the monitors tracking the babies.

“I’m working on it.”

Mom squeezes my shoulder. “She’s in good hands.”

I know that.

Believing it becomes easier when Emma looks over and gives me the smallest smile before Babs starts explaining why babies need special cups.

The next few hours make every plan I’ve ever created for today completely useless.

Emma gets the epidural she already decided she wanted, which helps for a bit, but labor keeps moving and the pressure builds with it.

Nurses come and go. Dr. Keller checks her progress. Monitors shift whenever one of the babies moves far enough to make somebody reposition a sensor.

Whenever one of the heartbeats disappears beneath static, my attention shifts to the screen until the nurse moves the sensor and the sound returns.

Nobody else in the room reacts after the first few times, but I keep tracking both lines across the monitor even after I know exactly what the nurse is going to tell me.

By early afternoon, Mom has taken the girls home with promises that I’ll call the second anything changes, Theo has been sent away after Emma threatens to make him responsible for naming the babies if he doesn’t stop hovering, and the room has gone quieter.

Emma lies on her side with her eyes closed and I sit beside the bed.

Her hand rests in mine. I haven’t let go of it in hours.

Another contraction builds across the monitor, and her fingers tighten as her expression changes.

I move closer. “What do you need?”

She breathes through it, her forehead creasing. “For this to be over.”

“I’ll speak to management.”

Her eyes open enough to glare at me. “You’re management.”

“Different department.”

A tired laugh catches in her throat before the contraction steals it.

I rub my thumb across Emma’s knuckles.

The contraction climbs across the monitor, forcing myself to keep my attention on her instead of searching for another task.

She needs my hand within reach and my head in this room, which should be easier than every security problem I’ve handled in my life. Yet sitting beside her while she hurts takes more restraint than any of them.

Her grip finally loosens and she opens her eyes. “You’re doing it again.”

“What?”

“Thinking so loudly I can practically hear it.”

“I’m sitting here.”