He took the recorder from Lucas’s small hand.

Behind me, I heard a sharp, wet gasp.

I turned around quickly, my heart hammering in my chest.

My mother Helen was clutching her stomach, her fingers digging into her grey sweater.

“Mom?” I whispered, stepping toward the wooden railing.

She tried to speak, but only a faint, choked groan came out of her mouth.

Her eyes rolled back, showing only the whites.

She began to slide off the polished wooden bench.

“Help!” I shouted, reaching over the railing to catch her before she hit the floor.

Mason let out a high-pitched cry and clung to his brother’s arm.

The courtroom erupted into noise, with people shouting and chairs scraping.

In the distance, the faint sound of a siren began to wail through the city streets.

My mother’s hand suddenly gripped my wrist with surprising, desperate strength.

Her skin felt burning hot against my cold fingers.

She pulled me down toward her pale face.

“The clinic,” she whispered, her breath smelling faintly of copper.

“They lied about eighty-seven.”

Her eyes closed, and her grip went entirely slack.