The line went dead.

Ethan stared at the black screen of the phone.

The red light on the console began to blink again, faster this time.

From down the hallway, a faint, high-pitched alarm began to sound.

It was the chime of the elevator bank at the end of the corridor.

Ethan grabbed his pager from his belt as it began to vibrate violently against his side.

He looked at the screen, his face turning completely pale under the harsh fluorescent lights.

I reached for the metal railing of my bed, my fingers slipping on the cold steel.

“Ethan,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “What is happening?”

He did not look at me immediately.

His eyes remained fixed on the small screen of his pager.

“The NICU security alert,” he said, his voice flat and tight. “Someone just breached the secondary airlock.”

My heart hammered against my ribs, the monitor beside my bed instantly speeding up its rhythmic beep.

The pain from my emergency cesarean section flared, a sharp, tearing sensation across my lower abdomen.

I ignored it and swung my legs over the edge of the mattress.