The flashing lights of police cruisers painted the snowy glass doors in bright pulses of red and blue.

The reporters rushed after them, their voices rising in a chaotic swell of questions as the doors swung shut.

I grabbed Ethan’s sleeve, pulling him away from the lingering onlookers.

“We have to go to the third floor,” I said, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“If someone has them, they can’t have gone far with the oxygen tanks.”

“They wouldn’t take the tanks,” Ethan said, his pace quickening as we hurried toward the service elevators.

“They would use portable transport incubators, but those require authorization codes.”

“Who has those codes besides you?” I asked.

“My mother’s personal security team,” Ethan said, his teeth clenched.

“She kept three of them on the hospital payroll as ‘consultants.'”

We reached the elevator bank, and Ethan hit the call button repeatedly.

The digital display showed the elevator descending from the fifth floor, moving agonizingly slow.

A young resident in green scrubs ran toward us from the main hallway, clutching a clipboard.

“Dr. Harrison,” the resident gasped, trying to catch his breath.