Choices, which opened in 1999, has guided three dozen families through its hospice.
"What hospice really means is that we're going to share this with you. We're going to bear it with you," Stringfield told her.
"Who's your support system?" he asked.
Danielle tried to think. She and her boyfriend, Lee, had broken up and he had moved out. Her friends avoided talking about the twins. Danielle spoke with her mom sometimes, but she was ashamed to ask for much help; she had made her own bad choices in life and she wanted to set things right herself.
"I have nobody," she finally said.
Stringfield reached over to rub her arm. "You have us."
They talked for more than an hour. Stringfield asked Danielle about her fears, finances, even her heartburn, and listened attentively, jotting notes. Finally, he led her into the clinic's darkened sonogram room. Danielle was so worn out, she barely looked as Tammy squirted ultrasound gel on her stomach in the shape of a smile.
Then the twins appeared on the screen in blurry black and white.
"There's Lee!" Tammy called. "There's his leg and his knee and his little fist."
Danielle's jaw unclenched. Staring at her son's curled fingers, she beamed, eyes glistening.
"Want to hear his heartbeat?" A rhythmic whoosh filled the room.
"My baby," Danielle said, her voice swollen. "No matter what, that's my baby."
Tammy switched off the heartbeat and Danielle looked back at the screen. "I don't ever want to forget him," she said. "Memories fade. I don't want to forget."
The dream came on an early October morning, after another restless night.
Danielle saw herself holding baby Lee. She wanted to show him off to her friends, but all she could say, over and over, was that he would soon die. Then she was trying to get him to nurse. She was frantic to keep him awake.
The dream shifted; she was at home. Lee rolled off the couch before she could stop him, bloodying his mouth and his nose.