I held the phone out, my hand shaking so hard the screen went blurry.

Sarah leaned in, her eyes narrowing as she read the words.

She grabbed my wrist to steady my hand and looked closely at the photograph.

“Who sent this?” Sarah asked, her voice dropping to a whisper.

“It is a burner number,” I said, my throat dry. “Or maybe one of Patricia’s friends.”

Sarah walked straight to the heavy wooden door of the postpartum room.

She pulled it open and motioned to the nurse’s station down the hall.

“We need security in room 412 immediately,” Sarah told the clerk.

She shut the door again and locked it with a sharp click.

I looked back at the window, suddenly terrified of the dark parking lot five floors below.

The autumn wind whipped rain against the glass, making a soft, rhythmic tapping sound.

Rowan let out a soft, congested squeak from inside his plastic dome.

I stood up, ignoring the sharp pull in my lower abdomen, and stood directly over him.

“They are trying to scare you,” Sarah said, walking back to my side.