With the tranquil assurance of a typical pregnancy, Jennie and her husband prepared for parenting. Every pulse was a steady, rhythmic promise of a normal life; every scan revealed a healthy, developing fetus. There were no whispered warnings from experts, no hint of the impending storm. However, the story of their lives abruptly and violently changed at thirty-four weeks. What started out as a standard examination turned into a last-minute dash to the operating room for an urgent cesarean section.

There was a false sense of relief in the first moments of the delivery. A newborn’s healthy, keen cry filled the antiseptic air as the doctors labored, a sound that typically signifies the end of fear. For a brief moment, Jennie let her muscles relax, thinking the crisis had been avoided, after hearing one of the medical staff comment on the baby’s beauty. Then the room’s mood became chilly. A thick, oppressive stillness took the place of the congratulatory chitchat. Jennie observed the physicians’ and nurses’ eyes above their masks; a look of deep, clinical horror had replaced the light of professional routine.

Jennie could feel the panic building as the staff gathered around the baby. Although she was unable to see her daughter, she could sense the energy in the room changing from the frenetic desperation of a rescue effort to the rhythmic efficiency of a birth. The baby’s skin had started to change horribly within seconds of being exposed to the air. With unfathomable speed, it hardened, tightening across her small frame until it cracked, leaving excruciating, deep fractures that resembled armor plate. Before the sedative eventually knocked Jennie into slumber, her frantic inquiries were met with ambiguous, tense assurances.