I pulled Owen closer to my chest, his warm, tiny weight the only thing keeping me anchored.

Through the open door, I heard voices echoing off the linoleum walls.

A man in a sharp blue suit was arguing with Vance, holding a manila folder.

My father stood near the window, his eyes fixed on the hallway, his jaw tight.

“They won’t take him, Hannah,” he whispered.

I looked down at Owen’s sleeping face.

My fingers trembled against his soft yellow blanket.

Vance returned a few minutes later, his expression grim but controlled.

“The judge signed an emergency stay on their petition,” Vance said. “But we have to appear at the preliminary hearing tomorrow morning.”

“Is that enough time?” I asked, my voice cracking.

“It will have to be,” Vance said. “We have the evidence. We just need to present it before they can manipulate the system any further.”

***

The courtroom smelled of lemon polish and old paper.

Heavy oak benches lined the gallery, and the high windows let in a gray, winter light.

I sat at the prosecution table, my father on one side and a victim advocate on the other.