I lay on the thin mattress, listening to the siren wail against the howling wind.

My hands rested on my stomach, praying the tight cramping would stop.

By the time we reached Chicago General, the hallways were quiet, smelling of bleach and old floor wax.

They wheeled me into an isolation room on the third floor.

Two armed federal guards stood right outside the heavy wooden door.

To my surprise, Miller walked Adrian into the room ten minutes later.

Adrian’s hands were cuffed in front of him, his dark wool coat stained with melted snow.

“He stays here where I can see him,” Miller told the nurse who was checking my vitals.

The nurse finished wrapping the blood pressure cuff around my arm and left without a word.

The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic beep of the fetal heart monitor they had attached to my belly.

“Who sent the text, Claire?” Adrian asked, his voice low and raspy.

“I don’t know,” I said, looking away from him.

“It said our baby is a liability.”