Dave grabbed your arm.
The pain from that alone almost made you black out, and when he tried to drag you across the tile, a scream ripped out of you before you could stop it. Your free hand flew to your belly. The blood on the floor streaked under you, and for one awful second you were sure your baby had died and your body already knew it before anyone else did.
Then pounding hit the front door.
Not polite knocks. Not neighborhood concern. Heavy, official blows that rattled the frame. Dave froze with your wrist still in his hand. Mrs. Higgins whispered, “Let go of her,” so furiously her whole face twisted, but it was too late. A male voice shouted from outside.
“Sheriff’s department! Open the door!”
Dave let go so fast your arm hit the tile.
He stumbled backward, swore, then bolted toward the entryway while his mother started wiping at the counter with a linen napkin as if she could erase both the blood and herself before the door opened. You lay half-curled on the floor, breath sawing in and out of your chest, listening to the thunder of boots and your own heartbeat fighting to stay ahead of disaster.
The door opened.
The next thirty seconds moved in bright, fractured pieces. Two deputies stepped in first, one older, one young, both taking in the kitchen scene so fast you could almost watch them building the truth from angles and color. Behind them came paramedics with a stretcher and trauma bags, and behind them, still in a grease-stained dark work shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, came your father.
Dave started talking the second he saw uniforms.
“She fell,” he said. “She got emotional and slipped, and she’s been unstable lately because of the pregnancy and—”
“Shut up,” the older deputy said without even looking at him.
Your father crossed the kitchen in four strides. 
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