There was no intake of breath. No panicked questions of “What’s wrong?” Arthur Vance, a retired Four-Star Military General who had spent thirty years commanding theaters of war, did not deal in panic. He dealt in logistics.
“Location,” Arthur’s voice barked through the phone, sharp and commanding, instantly shifting from father to commander.
“Home,” I gasped, the darkness creeping further into my vision. “I’m bleeding, Dad. So much blood. The baby…”
“Sitrep understood,” Arthur said. The sound of a heavy truck engine roaring to life echoed through the receiver. “I am ten minutes away. Apply pressure if you can. Breathe. Hold on, soldier.”
The line went dead.
I dropped the phone. The pain was becoming a distant, muted roar, replaced by a terrifying, cold numbness creeping up my limbs. Through the fading light of the living room, I could see Helen standing up, carefully stepping around the growing pool of my blood.
“I’m going to call a cleaning service,” she muttered, her face pinched in disgust. “This is going to stain.”
I closed my eyes, letting the darkness take me, praying that my father drove fast.