And then, perhaps ten minutes in, a pain tore through my lower body that was not the cold, and not a cramp, and I knew it at once for what it was, because I had read every book and taken every class and prepared for this in a warm bright hospital that felt, now, like something from another life.

It was a contraction.

The cold and the terror had sent me into labor, eight weeks early, on a frozen concrete floor.

“No,” I whispered.

“No, no, not yet, my sweet ones.

Please.

Not here.

Not yet.”