A Race Against Time
Paramedics rushed in and lifted her onto a stretcher. I stumbled after them, barely able to keep up.
At the hospital, the doctors’ voices were urgent: “Emergency C-section. The mother is in a coma. The baby’s premature and will need an incubator.”
My grandson, little Leo, lay so small, breathing in rhythm with the machines. My hands shook, but my mind was clear: I had the evidence in my pocket.
