I was thirty-eight weeks and one day with di-di twins.

It had been an entirely unremarkable pregnancy — I had a scheduled cesarean on the books for the eighth, I had taught a full day of chemistry on the first of March, I had a bag by the door.

On the afternoon of the second of March I was in the kitchen of our apartment in Madison, and something happened in my abdomen that I am not going to describe, and I was on the floor, and Davis was home because it was a Tuesday and he works from home on Tuesdays.

He called 911 at 4:08.