TWENTY-EIGHT
I watched over Sara for the duration of her pregnancy. For someone in her third trimester, Sara was very small. She worked in the lab as a blood-draw technician; her pregnancy limited her job options right down to being a glorified, over-qualified nurse. She ran bloodwork, screening babies for cystic fibrosis and other autoimmune diseases. There was a spot for her in the medical research department, but she would only be allowed to transfer once she returned from maternity leave.
On Valentine’s Day, two months before her due date, her water broke. She’d frozen, eyes wide, so I tossed a petri dish off the edge of the shelf to bring her colleague over.
“Oh! Wow …” said Lena, a young Asian nurse.
Sara remained still, already in shock. “I-I think my water broke.”
“Yeah, I can
