Behind us, Judge Henderson banged her gavel.

“This court will take a fifteen-minute recess,” the judge announced. “Bailiffs, do not let the defendants leave their seats.”

We burst through the heavy doors and into the sterile, brightly lit hallway.

The smell of floor wax and old paper hit my nose.

My father led the way, his back straight and his pace matching the quick, rhythmic stride of a soldier marching to a line.

We bypassed the elevators and took the concrete stairs three at a time.

My breath came in short, ragged gasps as we descended into the basement level.

The air grew cooler down here, smelling of damp earth and laundry detergent from the hospital facilities next door.

We reached the heavy fire doors marked with the words *Family Court Nursery*.

Through the wire-reinforced glass window, I saw two men in navy blue EMT uniforms standing near the reception desk.

One of them held a portable infant car seat.

A young female nurse was standing behind the desk, her face pale as she shook her head.