Page 110 of Harper

“The bed’s soaking wet,” she says. “And it doesn’t smell like pee.”

“No,” I say, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. “You’re only thirty-six weeks, Harp. We’re not ready…no.”

“Yes,” she says, standing up. She puts a hand on her lower back and shuffles to the bathroom. “It’s happening. Now. Yes. Get up.”

I’m still groggy from sleep, but I grab the sweats I was wearing last night and pull them on while Harper sits on the toilet.

“I’ll call Brian!” I tell her.

“No!” she says. “Not Brian. Medevac.”

“Are you bleeding?”

“Nope. Just leaking. But if I go into labor on the flight, we’ll need a medical crew on board.”

I grab a T-shirt and sweatshirt from my dresser drawer and unclip my cell phone from its charger. Thank God the number for Guardian Flight Services is pre-programmed. I order amedevac for us as soon as possible and then go back to check on Harper.

She looks up at me with red cheeks and wide eyes.

“It’s too early,” she says.

“Thirty-six weeks is okay. She’ll be okay,” I say, trying to sound confident. “You need clothes.”

I open the closet to find maternity underwear, leggings, and an oversized, long-sleeved T-shirt.

“Hand me one of those big maxi pads,” she says, pointing to the closet in the corner of the bathroom.

I give her the pad and help her get changed. Once she’s dry and dressed, we grab her “go” bag (thank God she packed it last week), and I help her out to the truck. As we drive to the airport, she calls her family.

“Dad? My water broke. Yeah. About an hour ago.”

I can’t hear what Gary’s saying, but I know her father and grandmother had planned to join us in Anchorage for Wren’s birth. I have no idea what they’ll do now.

“No. We’re using medevac,” she says. “Call Brian in the morning and ask him to bring you up. We still have two more pre-paid flight credits with him.”

How can she be thinking this clearly? My brain is mostly worried mush at this point.

“Love you, too. I’ll have Joe start a text chain to keep you all in the loop.”

We get to Skagway airport, park, and make our way into the terminal, which just opened because it’s just after six. Medevac from Juneau will arrive in twenty minutes. While I set up a text group for the Stewarts, Sandra, and Bart, Harper goes to the bathroom to check on amniotic fluid loss. I can read the worry on her face when she returns.

“Feels like a lot. The pad was wet, so I changed it,” she says, her voice thick with worry. “Joe, if anything happens to me—”

“Stop,” I say, pulling her into my arms as a chill runs down my back. “Plane’ll be here soon. We’ll be in Anchorage in an hour and a half. An ambulance will be waiting. We’ll be at the hospital by eight-thirty, and Dr. Kim will meet us there.”

“That’s more than two hours from now.” Her eyes widen. “That feels like a long time from now. What if labor starts while we’re flying?”

“Are you having contractions?”

She seems to concentrate for a moment, then shakes her head. “No. Not yet.”

“Okay,” I say, feeling breathless. “That’s good. That’s really good.”

“You know how to deliver a baby, right, Joe? You know what to do?”

She’s right that I had to learn how to deliver a baby when I went through EMT training at the police academy, but it’s been a long time since I brushed up on those skills. Besides, from what I understand about Harper’s previous delivery, during which she almost died from blood loss, it wouldn’t be good for her to try to give birth vaginally.

I’m not going to lie.

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