After three minutes of laying on the bed, with a blue sheet covering my bare body, the intern still can't find my baby's heartbeat.
I look around the small white office of a Lower East Side clinic, feeling my own heart rate quicken.
"I'm sorry," she winces. "I'll be right back."
I look up at Naima and Amir who wait, huddled in the corner. "I'm scared."
"I'm sure Little Star's okay," Naima smiles. Amir just shifts uncomfortably.
The intern returns with a midwife, and I hold my breath as she expertly circles the fetal doppler through the blue ultrasound gel warming on my belly.
"There it is!" she exclaims.
The sound was like galloping, a stormy pitter-patter, the swift motion of hands tapping congas.
My wet belly jumps with a sudden intake of breath. "I can't wait for the sonogram."