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Throughout the week, things stayed surprisingly… normal.

Well—normal-ish.

I still had weird cravings, but at this point, Lily and Sam didn’t even blink. Sam just slid the jar across the table without a word, and Lily only gagged dramatically once before moving on to whatever craft she was working on.

But today?

Today was a zoo day.

And not just any zoo.

We were going to Como Zoo.

The sun was warm but not too hot, and the sky was that perfect summer blue that looked like it came straight out of a postcard. As we pulled into the parking lot, I was already bouncing a little in my seat.

“I wanna see the giraffes first,” I declared as we got out.

“No, penguins first,” Lily argued.

“Please,” Sam groaned. “We all know we’re ending up at the hot dog stand either way.”

Spoiler alert: he was right.

But first—the animals.

We wandered through the wide walkways, peeking into enclosures and reading the signs like we were on a mission to collect memories.

The flamingos were standing in a perfect line, all on one leg, looking like a ballet troupe that was just done with rehearsal.

I stared at them for a long time, mesmerized. “They’re like… weirdly elegant.”

The fox was curled up in the shade, the bison lazily swaying their tails as they chewed. The cougar was pacing slowly, eyes watching us like we were the ones on display.

Then we spotted the lion, dozing with one paw over its face like it was done with the whole world. In contrast, the tiger was fully awake, stalking around like it owned the place—and maybe it did.

The crowned crane looked like it had walked out of a fashion magazine with its fluffy golden crown and dramatic strut. Nearby, Dall’s sheep lounged on a rocky hill, totally unbothered by the crowds.

“I want that life,” Sam muttered.

Afterward, we made our way to the giraffe, zebra, and ostrich habitat—one big open space where the animals mingled like it was some kind of weird animal party. The giraffes moved with slow grace, their heads towering above the trees. The zebras looked like living artwork. And the ostrich?

It stared at us like we were the weird ones.

Later, we stopped at the primate exhibit.

We saw the empire tamarins, little monkeys with big white mustaches that made them look like tiny, grumpy old men.

“Why do they look like someone’s grandpa?” I whispered, cracking Lily up.

The gorillas sat quietly in the shade, one of them gently cradling a baby. The orangutan was swinging lazily from a rope while another stared out at us like he was contemplating the meaning of life.

“Same,” Sam muttered.

The lemurs were more energetic, bouncing from branch to branch, tails flicking like they were fueled by sugar.

The sea lion show was next, and of course we got front-row seats for Sparky the Sea Lion.

He twirled, dove, barked, and gave high-fives to the trainer, splashing water on the crowd (Lily shrieked and tried to use Sam as a human shield).

“I love him,” I whispered. “He understands me. And the shape of him looks like a hot dog.”

“You’re weirdly craving a hot dog aren’t you?” Sam said, pointing to the food stand in the distance.

My eyes lit up.

“Hot dog time!”

We all made a beeline for the stand, and I didn’t even hesitate.

“I want one with everything,” I told the vendor. “Ketchup, mustard, onions, relish, pickles, and sauerkraut.”

Lily looked horrified. “All of that? That’s like a salad bar disaster.”

I took a big bite. “And it’s beautiful.”

Sam pretended to walk away. “I can’t be seen with this.”

But I saw him steal a bite of his own hot dog when he thought no one was watching.

We ate on a bench near the tortoise enclosure, where a giant old tortoise was slowly making its way across the grass like it had all the time in the world.

Next came the polar bear, swimming back and forth with ease, his giant paws brushing the glass. The harbor seals and gray seal shared the nearby enclosure, gliding through the water like sleek shadows.

The puffins were clustered together like little floating bowling pins, their beaks looking like someone had colored them in with markers.

Near the end of the loop, we visited the sloth—who didn’t move. At all.

Lily stood there for five minutes.

“Is it alive?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “He’s just me in animal form.”

By the end of the day, my feet ached, I was sticky with zoo sweat, and my hot dog craving had been replaced by a sudden need for chocolate milk and gummy worms.

But I was happy.

Really, genuinely happy.

It felt good to be out, laughing, making memories that didn’t involve stress or fear or doctor visits.

Just a girl, her weird cravings, and a zoo full of animals that somehow made everything feel a little more normal.

Even if the hot dog was covered in sauerkraut.

The car ride home was quiet at first—just the low hum of the road and the soft rustling of souvenir bags in the backseat.

Lily had fallen asleep with her head against the window, still clutching her little stuffed giraffe like it was a treasure. Sam had his earbuds in and was half-dozing, and I was leaning against the seatbelt, staring out at the darkening sky.

I still had the ultrasound photo in my pocket. I kept reaching down to touch it, just to make sure it was still there.

Mom glanced at me in the mirror. “You holding up okay?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Just tired.”

She smiled. “Me too. But that was a good day.”

And it was. Until it wasn’t.

We were only about fifteen minutes from home when it happened.

A blur of headlights.

The squeal of brakes.

Mom’s sharp intake of breath.

And then—

BAM.

The world jolted sideways.

Glass shattered.

Metal screamed.

My body snapped forward, jerked back, the seatbelt catching hard across my chest. Lily screamed. Sam shouted. Everything spun.

And then—

Stillness.

I couldn’t breathe at first. The air had been knocked out of me, and all I could hear was the ringing in my ears.

My heart pounded wildly.

I blinked.

My arms were trembling.

And then—my stomach.

Panic exploded in my chest.

The baby.

Oh God.

The baby.

“Emily!” Mom’s voice cut through everything. “Are you okay? Talk to me!”

“I—I think so,” I whispered, trying to steady my voice. “But… my stomach hurts.”

Sam was already trying to open his door, shouting something. Lily was crying, her face streaked with tears but alive, thank God.

Mom turned around in her seat, her hands shaking. “Emily, breathe. You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay, sweetheart.”

“I need to go to the hospital,” I said, my voice cracking. “I need to make sure the baby’s okay.”

Sirens wailed in the distance.

Everything felt like a blur—people talking, lights flashing, a stranger’s voice asking if I could walk.

I couldn’t.

My knees buckled as I stepped out of the car.

So they put me on a stretcher.

The ambulance doors closed behind me, and for the first time since the impact, the tears finally came. Not from pain—but from fear.

“Please be okay,” I whispered to the baby, my hand pressed protectively to my stomach. “Please… just be okay.”

The ceiling of the ambulance was blinding white.

I lay there, strapped onto the stretcher, the rough vibrations of the road rattling through my bones with every bump and turn. The sirens wailed above me, a shrieking reminder that this was real. That something was wrong.

My hands trembled uncontrollably as I gripped the thin blanket they’d draped over me. I couldn’t stop staring at the straps around my chest, at the fluorescent lights above me, at the paramedic leaning over my side.

"Blood pressure’s a little high," he muttered to the other EMT. “That adrenaline’s kicking in hard.”

“Emily?” he said, more gently now, looking down at me. “Can you hear me?”

I nodded fast, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps. “I—my baby. Is the baby okay?”

“We’re taking you to the hospital right now. They’ll check everything, okay? You’re awake, you’re talking—that’s a good sign.”

But it didn’t feel like a good sign.

I was shaking so hard I thought my teeth might chatter out of my head. “It hurts. Not bad, but… it hurts. What if that means something’s wrong? What if—what if I lose it?”

“Deep breaths,” he said, placing a hand on my shoulder to keep me grounded. “We’re almost there. You’re doing everything right.”

I didn’t feel right.

I felt terrified.

Helpless.

I hadn’t even had time to think after the crash. The car had slammed into us out of nowhere, and now I was strapped down in a speeding ambulance with a thousand nightmare scenarios racing through my head.

“What if—what if the baby’s not okay?” I whispered again, tears sliding sideways off my face and into my hair. “What if I messed this up?”

“You didn’t,” the EMT said firmly. “This wasn’t your fault. You’re doing what you need to do—getting help.”

“I was finally starting to feel okay about it,” I choked out. “I made peace with it. I chose this. I was gonna be a good mom. I want this baby…”

The words dissolved into sobs.

And the fear wouldn’t stop growing.

The lights flickered across my vision as the sirens wailed on.

I squeezed my eyes shut and whispered over and over, like a prayer I was too afraid to say out loud.

Please let the baby be okay. Please. Please. Please.

The ambulance doors swung open, and the world rushed in—bright lights, the smell of antiseptic, voices overlapping in a blur.

“Fourteen-year-old female, pregnant, approximately twelve weeks along. Involved in a motor vehicle accident—conscious, vitals stable but elevated, mild abdominal pain. Needs immediate fetal assessment.”

Everything was happening so fast.

I was rolled down a hallway, the fluorescent lights zipping past overhead. People moved around me—nurses, doctors, techs—talking to each other in clipped, efficient tones. They weren’t panicked, but they were fast. Focused.

“Emily,” a nurse said gently, stepping beside me, “we’re going to take care of you and the baby, okay? You’re in good hands.”

I tried to nod, but the fear still gripped me like a fist around my lungs.

They wheeled me into a private room, unstrapped me from the stretcher, and helped me ease into a hospital bed. Monitors beeped softly, the sound strange and steady. A doctor came in moments later, her scrubs patterned with tiny bears.

“Hi, Emily. I’m Dr. Nguyen. We’re going to do a quick exam and an ultrasound to make sure everything is okay. Can you tell me where it hurts most?”

“My stomach,” I said, my voice hoarse. “Lower right side. It’s not sharp, just... sore. And I have some bruises, I think. But mostly I’m just scared.”

Dr. Nguyen gave a reassuring smile. “That’s completely understandable. Let’s take it one step at a time.”

The nurse gently rolled up my gown, and soon the cool jelly hit my stomach again. I flinched, still sore, but I didn’t care. I needed to see.

The wand moved across my belly, and the screen came to life.

There it was.

My baby.

Still there.

Still flickering.

Still alive.

The little shape looked the same as before, but somehow more precious now—fragile, yet powerful.

“There’s the heartbeat,” Dr. Nguyen said softly, turning the volume up.

The room filled with the steady, whump-whump-whump of the tiny heart that refused to quit.

Tears spilled down my cheeks, and this time, they were relief.

“She’s okay?” I asked, barely able to breathe.

“She’s okay,” the doctor confirmed. “No signs of trauma. Heartbeat is strong. You’re very lucky.”

I exhaled slowly, as if I’d been holding my breath for hours.

A nurse brought over a warm blanket and helped clean the jelly off my skin. Another gently dabbed at the scrapes on my arm, bandaging the shallow cuts from the shattered window glass. They started an IV and adjusted the monitor beside me.

“You’ve got some minor bruising and a few lacerations,” Dr. Nguyen said. “We’re going to keep you overnight for observation—mostly to monitor for any delayed symptoms or stress-related issues. But so far, everything looks stable.”

I nodded, still dazed. “Okay. Thank you.”

And just as I thought I might finally rest, a nurse burst into the room.

“Dr. Nguyen, incoming patient—ten-year-old female, also from the crash. Possible fractured arm, head trauma. Name’s Lily.”

I froze.

My chest tightened. “Lily?! That’s my sister!”

Dr. Nguyen glanced at me, surprised, then quickly turned to the nurse. “Bring her here. They can share a room—we have enough space, and it’ll help both of them.”

Within minutes, they wheeled Lily in on a second stretcher. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her face pale and damp with tears. One arm was wrapped tight in a temporary brace. There was dried blood on her forehead.

“Lily!” I tried to sit up, wincing at the ache in my ribs. “Is she okay?”

“She’s stable,” a paramedic answered quickly. “We got her out of the backseat—she was conscious the whole time. Complained of her arm, dizziness, and abdominal pain.”

“I’m okay,” Lily mumbled weakly as they eased her onto the bed next to mine. “Just hurts. A lot.”

“You’re gonna be okay,” I whispered, reaching out my hand toward hers. “I promise.”

Dr. Nguyen and her team worked quickly, ordering scans and pain meds for Lily. While they moved around us, I kept my eyes locked on my little sister—her small frame now so vulnerable, her usual spark dimmed by pain.

She blinked at me through heavy eyelids. “Emily?”

“I’m here,” I said softly, squeezing her hand. “I’m right here.”

“I thought you were hurt bad.”

“I was scared,” I admitted. “But the baby’s okay. I’m okay. And you… you’re the bravest girl I know.”

Her lip trembled. “It hurts.”

“I know. But we’ll get through this. Together.”

Eventually, the bustle quieted. The doctors stepped out, promising to come back with full scan results, and the lights dimmed.

We were alone, side by side in matching hospital beds, bruised and bandaged and shaken—but alive.

And safe.

For now.

About an hour passed, the soft beeping of monitors the only sound in the dim hospital room. Lily had finally fallen asleep, her head turned gently toward me, her injured arm wrapped in fresh bandages and propped up on a pillow. I lay still in my bed, watching her breathe, the weight of the entire day pressing heavy on my chest.

Then the door creaked open.

Mom stepped in first, eyes puffy, clearly having cried more than once. Sam followed behind her, quiet, eyes darting between Lily and me like he didn’t know who to check on first.

“Mom?” I said softly, my throat dry.

Her eyes met mine and immediately filled with tears again. She hurried to my bedside and wrapped her arms around me, careful of the IV lines and the bruises. “Oh, Emily… thank God you’re okay.”

“I’ve been okay,” I whispered, pulling back just enough to look at her. “Why did it take so long for you to get here?”

She hesitated, then let out a slow breath. “We had to stay behind and talk to the police… and the insurance people. The car’s totaled. Completely gone.”

My chest tightened. “Oh.”

“And… the man who hit us…” she paused, then glanced at Sam. He was sitting down now, staring at his hands. “He was driving under the influence. He didn’t make it. Died at the scene.”

I looked down at my lap, the weight of it all hitting me again. “He could’ve killed all of us.”

“I know,” she whispered, brushing a hand through my hair. “I know.”

The room went quiet again until—

The door flew open.

“Emily!” Dad’s voice echoed as he rushed in, out of breath, his work shirt still half untucked and his face pale.

“Dad!” I sat up slightly, wincing.

He was at my side in seconds, dropping to his knees next to the bed and grabbing my hand like he was afraid I might disappear. “I got here as fast as I could—they wouldn’t let me leave work right away, I’ve been trying to call—oh God, are you okay?”

I nodded quickly, breath catching in my throat. “The baby’s fine. I’m fine. Just bruises.”

He let out a long breath of relief and leaned forward, resting his forehead against my arm.

“I thought I lost you,” he murmured. “I thought—”

Then he turned his head, eyes landing on the other bed.

“Lily?” His voice cracked as he saw her.

Mom stepped aside, letting him move to her side.

She looked so small in that big hospital bed, one arm in a brace, her forehead bandaged, her breathing soft and uneven.

“Oh my God,” he whispered, brushing her hair back gently. “What happened to her?”

“She took the brunt of it,” Mom said softly. “Fractured arm. Head injury. Lots of bruising. But no internal damage. They say she’s going to be okay.”

He stared down at Lily, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe it. “She’s nine. She’s just a baby…”

I watched his eyes fill with tears, the kind he never showed—not even when things got really bad.

“She kept asking for you,” I said, voice small.

He looked over at me, eyes glassy. “You all could’ve died.”

“But we didn’t,” Mom said gently, placing a hand on his back. “They’re here. They’re okay. That’s what matters.”

Dad wiped at his face roughly, then stepped back to look at all three of us—me in my bed, Lily resting beside me, Sam standing quietly at the foot of my bed.

Then he pulled Sam into a hug, holding him tight. “You okay, buddy?”

Sam nodded, but his voice came out hoarse. “Yeah.”

Dad kissed the top of his head and looked around again, eyes lingering on me. “I don’t care what the insurance says, or the car, or any of it. Nothing matters more than you four being alive.”

It was the most emotional I’d ever seen him.

And somehow, that hit me even harder than the crash had.

We were here.

Battered, bruised, shaken to the core.

But we had each other.

The room had gone still.

The overhead lights were dimmed to a soft glow, and the hallway outside had finally quieted down—no more loud footsteps, no more stretchers rolling past, just the steady beep of monitors and the low hum of machines.

Mom and Dad had stepped out to speak with the nurse, and Sam was curled up on the little chair by the window, half-asleep with his hoodie pulled over his head.

I shifted slightly in my bed, careful not to jostle the IV, and turned toward Lily. Her eyes were open now, staring up at the ceiling.

“You awake?” I whispered.

She blinked, then slowly turned her head toward me. “Yeah.”

For a second, we just stared at each other. The silence between us didn’t feel awkward—just heavy, full of everything we’d both been through that day.

Then Lily’s bottom lip wobbled. “I was really scared.”

My throat tightened. “Me too.”

She reached her uninjured hand out slowly between the beds, and I stretched mine out to meet it, our fingers linking in the middle like we’d done a hundred times when we were little.

“I thought you were gonna die,” she whispered. “And the baby too.”

“I thought that too,” I said honestly. “But we didn’t. We’re still here.”

Lily’s eyes welled up. “It hurts a lot.”

“I know. You’re gonna be sore for a while. But you’re the toughest nine-year-old I’ve ever met.”

“I’m almost ten,” she mumbled.

I smiled softly. “Exactly.”

She was quiet for a minute. Then she asked, “Emily… were you scared about the baby? Like really scared?”

I hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. More scared than I’ve ever been. I didn’t know what was going to happen. I didn’t know if I could protect it. But we got lucky.”

Lily wiped her eyes with her good arm. “I’m glad it’s okay. I think… I think it’s gonna be cute.”

That made me laugh gently. “You think?”

She shrugged. “I mean, it’s gonna have you for a mom. And I guess me for an aunt, which is kinda awesome.”

My chest swelled a little at that—at how much that small sentence meant.

“You’re gonna be the best aunt ever,” I whispered.

We held hands in the quiet for a while longer, until her eyelids started to droop and the exhaustion caught up with her.

“Goodnight, Em,” she mumbled.

“Goodnight, Lil.”

Even with the monitors beeping and the ache in my body, I felt something soft and real settle in my chest.

We were hurt.

But we were healing.

Together.

And that was enough for tonight.