From somewhere down the hall, I heard the faint, high-pitched hum of an incubator.

I slipped my phone out of my pocket and set it to silent.

My hands were shaking.

I walked past the first three patient rooms.

The glass windows showed empty cribs and darkened rooms.

Then I saw a light shining from Room 304.

It was a soft, yellow glow, different from the fluorescent lights of the hallway.

I crept closer, keeping my back against the wall.

The smell of lavender perfume hit me first.

It was her scent.

It was the same heavy, suffocating smell that had filled my childhood home.

I looked through the narrow glass pane of the door.

My mother was standing over the central incubator.

She was wearing a white lab coat over her floral dress.

On her chest was a laminated visitor pass, but the name on it had been crudely taped over.

Beside her on the floor sat a large, black canvas bag.

She was holding a set of printed documents in her left hand.

Her right hand was resting on the plastic lid of the incubator.