The leading man in gray had a scarred chin and a radio clipped to his shoulder.

An older hospital guard, a man named Carl whom I had seen during my shifts, stepped into the hallway.

“Hold on,” Carl said, raising a hand. “This wing is restricted.”

The man with the scar did not stop.

He grabbed Carl by the shoulder and shoved him hard against the wall.

Carl’s head hit the drywall with a dull crack, and he slumped down beside a plastic water cooler.

“No,” I gasped, my grip tightening on Ethan’s arm.

“They are going for the south entrance of the NICU,” Ethan said.

His voice was terrifyingly calm now, the surgeon’s voice he used when a patient was crashing on the table.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his master access card.

“We have to seal the ward,” he said.

We dragged ourselves down the hallway, my steps slow and agonizing.

Every movement felt like hot glass scraping inside my pelvis.

Ahead of us, the three men reached the heavy double doors of the neonatal unit.