My husband was holding his passport when I told him my blood pressure was 186 over 114. I was thirty-four weeks pregnant with twins, black spots were flashing across my vision, and there was a crushing pain beneath my ribs. Grant looked at the monitor, looked at me on the kitchen floor, and said, “You always make things dramatic when I have somewhere important to be.”

The sound of shattering wood boomed through the hallway as the Chicago Fire Department forcible-entry team breached the heavy oak door.

"FDO! Clear the entry!" a voice roared.

Hands were suddenly on her—gloved, precise, and fast.

"Female, mid-thirties, late-term gestation, double pregnancy! BP is 192 over 118! We have a hypertensive crisis!"

"Get the IV in now! Labetalol ten milligrams IV push!"

Mara felt the sharp bite of a needle in her left forearm, followed by the cold rush of fluid entering her vein. A oxygen mask was strapped over her face, fogging with her rapid, shallow breaths.

"Ma'am, can you hear me? What's your name?" the paramedic asked, cutting her cashmere sweater down the center with heavy trauma shears to attach cardiac leads to her chest.

"Mara," she choked out through the mask. "Save... save the babies."

"We're taking you to Northwestern Memorial. Hang on, Mara. Keep your eyes on me."

The ride down the elevator was a blur of fluorescent lights and shouting voices. As they wheeled her gurney through the lobby, building security guards stood paralyzed behind the desk, terrified to intervene as the paramedics bypassed the main doors.

Outside, the cold lake air hit her face, crisp and bitter. She was loaded into the back of the ambulance, the doors slamming shut with a heavy mechanical latch.

Inside the trauma bay at Northwestern, the world became an orchestra of shouting specialists.

"Fetal heart rates are decelerating! Twin A is at ninety-eight, Twin B is fluctuating!"

"Get Dr. Feld down here now! We need an emergency C-section!"

Dr. Aris Feld burst through the double doors, pulling off a surgical mask as he approached the gurney. His face was pale. "Mara! Where is Grant?"

"He... he left," Mara whispered, her voice barely audible over the shrill alarms of the monitors surrounding her bed. "He took... the money. He locked me in."

Dr. Feld’s eyes flared with brief, cold fury before his professional composure reclaimed him. "We don't have time for a block. We're going under general anesthesia. Mara, listen to me. Your liver enzymes are spiking, your platelets are crashing. We have to deliver these babies right now to save your life."

"Are they... going to live?"

"We are going to do everything humanly possible," Dr. Feld said, placing a warm, firm hand on her shoulder. "Count down from ten for me."

They pressed a rubber mask over her face. The sweet, chemical smell of the anesthetic flooded her lungs.

Ten.

He locked the deadbolt.

Nine.

Twelve point six million.