The door to my room slowly creaked open.

A man in a sharp gray suit stood in the doorway, holding a leather briefcase.

“Mrs. Parker?” he asked, looking directly at me.

My father stood up, stepping between the man and my bed.

“Who the hell are you?” my father demanded.

“My name is Richard Vance,” the man said, his voice cool and professional.

“I represent Patricia Parker.”

He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a manila envelope.

“I have some paperwork to deliver regarding the temporary custody of Owen Parker.”

I gripped the hospital sheets, my knuckles turning white.

“Get out,” my father said, his voice dropping to a dangerous register.

The lawyer did not flinch; he simply held the envelope forward.

“You might want to read this before you make any decisions,” Vance said.

The hallway behind him suddenly echoed with the sound of rapid, heavy footsteps.

I looked past the lawyer’s shoulder as a nurse ran toward our door, her face filled with alarm.

“Colonel Bennett!” she called out. “We have a problem in the secure nursery.”