I dropped to my knees in the gravel, one hand over my belly, the other reaching blindly for something to hold onto. Ryan ran to me, grabbed my fingers with both of his tiny hands, and pressed himself against my side.

“Mom,” he said, his voice shaking, “it’s okay. I’ll protect you.”

Then another contraction ripped through me, the car exploded louder, and the whole yard turned into chaos.

Part 2

People like to imagine that in moments of real danger, adults take charge.

That night, the only person who truly moved first was my three-year-old son.

While I was kneeling in the driveway trying not to black out, Ryan tore away from me and ran barefoot across the yard to our neighbor’s house. I was too far gone to stop him. I remember shouting his name once, weakly, and seeing his little body disappear through the dark toward the porch light next door.

Then everything blurred.

I remember the smell of burning rubber. I remember Margaret yelling that somebody needed to move the car before it damaged her flower beds, as if that mattered more than the fact that I was soaked, shaking, and nearly crowning in her driveway. I remember Jessica pacing in circles, suddenly panicked by the size of the flames she had started, but still too proud to say she had done it on purpose. And I remember dropping sideways onto the grass while my contractions came so close together they stopped feeling separate.

Mrs. Holloway from next door was the one who called 911. Her husband came running after Ryan reached their house crying and screaming that his mommy was having the baby and Aunt Jessica had burned the car. Later, everyone said Ryan had also grabbed Mrs. Holloway’s phone and tried to call Michael on video because he knew that was what grown-ups did when something bad happened.

By the time the ambulance arrived, my mother had switched from cold indifference to frantic performance.

“She’s always been emotional,” she told the paramedics. “This all happened so fast.”