Myra Powell gripped her phone, her obstetrician’s number half-dialed, as she watched the blood spread across her sundress. It was a blue-and-black striped dress, and she’d worn it that day because it was comfortable, and this was the dead of summer in Montgomery, and she was pregnant.
She tried to stand and couldn’t.
Her bedroom was quiet. She’d been about to lie down for an afternoon nap when the crushing headache came on, constricting, pounding, rushing in her ears and blurring her vision like it had the time she’d gone to the ER and they’d given her some Motrin and told her it was normal.
But now there was blood, everywhere.