A nurse, a young woman named Clara, stepped in front of him with her hands raised.

“You cannot be in here,” Clara said, her voice trembling. “These babies are on high-flow oxygen.”

The man did not speak to her.

He reached out and grabbed Clara’s arm, twisting it behind her back.

She screamed, the sound echoing through the sterile glass of the unit.

Another man in gray stepped toward the incubator control panel.

He began pulling the sensors off the acrylic hood of the machine.

The alarm on incubator four began to shriek, a high, continuous beep that meant the temperature was dropping.

“Stop!” I screamed, though my voice was too weak to carry through the glass.

I dragged my IV pole forward, the small wheels squeaking on the floor.

My feet felt numb.

The pain in my abdomen was a hot iron, but I kept moving.

Ethan appeared at the far end of the NICU corridor, standing by a red metal box on the wall.

He broke the glass cover with the heel of his shoe.

He pulled the heavy yellow lever inside.