Upstairs, Ethan was holding his daughter, waiting for her mother to wake up.

I turned and walked toward the stairs, my heart pounding in my chest once more.

The snow outside continued to fall, burying the streets of Chicago in white.

We reached the third floor and walked out into the hallway.

The door to the waiting room was slightly ajar, a sliver of yellow light cutting across the dark linoleum.

I pushed the door open slowly.

The plastic chairs were empty.

The crayons were scattered on the low table, and the drawing of the house was still on the floor.

But Ethan and Lauren were not there.

“Ethan?” I called out, my voice sounding thin in the quiet ward.

There was no answer.

I walked over to the table and picked up the drawing.

On the back of the paper, there was a small note written in a hurried hand.

“They are moving her,” the note read.

“Room 314.”

I looked at Paul, who was standing in the doorway, his face pale under the fluorescent lights.

“Let’s go,” Paul said.