My breath caught in my throat.

“Dad,” I whispered, holding the screen toward his face.

He took the phone from my hand, his grip so tight his knuckles turned white.

He played the video again, his brow furrowing as he analyzed the brief footage.

“Is that Owen?” I gasped, my chest tightening so hard I could barely breathe.

“No,” my father said, his voice dropping an octave into his command register.

“Look at the blanket. It’s white cotton.”

“Owen is wrapped in the striped hospital flannel.”

“This is a scare tactic, Hannah.”

“They want you panicked.”

“They want you to make a mistake.”

He handed the phone back to me and pulled his own device from his pocket.

“We are going back to the room,” he said, guiding me down the corridor.

Our rubber-soled shoes squeaked against the freshly waxed floor.

The hospital smelled of floor wax and stale rubbing alcohol.

We reached my room, and my father immediately shut the heavy wooden door behind us.

He stood by the window, his tall frame silhouetted against the city lights below.