The hospital lights were too bright. Lloyd couldn't stop moving, one minute, he was pressed against the window of the maternity ward, straining for a glimpse of movement, the next, he was pacing the hallway, scrubbing his hands through his hair like it might shake off the rising panic constriction his chest.
Meghan had gone into labour at dawn and it was now past noon, something was wrong, he could feel it in his bones.
The twins had come fast, too fast. The doctor had said it with a calm voice and frantic eyes: “She’s haemorrhaging.”
Then everything became noise. Buzzing alarms. Barked orders. Nurses moving like dancers in a storm. And Meghan, his petal, white as snow, her eyes fluttering as the world pulled her under.
He’d seen the blood, it was too much, way too much.
Now, he stood
