The plastic slippers they had given me felt thin against the cold linoleum floor.

“Hannah, stay down,” Ethan said, turning to me now. “You are still bleeding.”

“Those are my babies,” I said.

I gripped the metal IV pole to keep my balance.

The plastic tubing tugged at the back of my hand where the needle was taped.

“They are my babies, Ethan.”

He did not argue with me.

Instead, he stepped to my side and let me lean my weight against his shoulder.

The smell of sterile scrubs and his familiar soap washed over me.

We moved together toward the doorway of my recovery room.

The corridor outside was brightly lit, but the usual hum of nurse activity had vanished.

In its place was the steady, mechanical chime of the elevator doors opening at the end of the hall.

Three men in dark gray tactical uniforms stepped out of the elevator.

They wore no hospital badges.

They carried black equipment bags and moved with a quiet, practiced precision.

“Hospital security is on the lower level,” Ethan muttered under his breath. “My mother timed this.”