"Is she crying?" the nurse snaps as I press the ultrasound print to my ribs. "No," I say. "I'm fine." "Good. We don't have time for theatrics." The nurse's voice is flat, quick. She pulls a curtain and folds it back with the efficiency of someone who has seen too many emergencies. "Show me the scan," the ER doctor says without looking up from the monitor. He snaps on gloves. "What happened?" "I had a sharp pain and spotting," I tell him. "I came straight here." He reads the print, pinches the bridge of his nose, then looks at me with a calm I don't feel. "You're in your seventh month. The placenta looks compromised. We have to prepare for the possibility of delivering now." "Delivering now?" I repeat. The word feels wrong in my mouth. "Yes. If the bleeding increases, it becomes life-threatening for you and the baby. We can attempt early delivery, but you need to understand the risks. There's also a scenario where immediate intervention would require consent for surgical procedures that could end the pregnancy." "Consent?" My voice drops. "Who signs?" "We need the patient’s consent," he says. "If you're not able to give it at the moment of crisis, next of kin or the legal spouse can sign." A nurse glances up, then away. Hospital lights hum. A monitor beeps in the corner. "Tell me the truth," I say. "If it comes down to it, could