A nurse helped me transfer onto a wide, firm bed, adjusting the pillows behind my head.

Another nurse strapped a monitor to my belly, and the steady, rhythmic thumping of a heartbeat filled the room.

*Thump-thump, thump-thump.*

The sound of my daughter’s heart was a solid, comforting weight in the sterile room.

Sarah adjusted an IV line in my left hand, the cold fluid sending a brief shiver up my arm.

“Is there anyone we need to call for you?” she asked, adjusting the monitor screen.

“My attorney,” I managed to say between shallow, rapid breaths. “Margaret Crane.”

Before the nurse could reach for the bedside phone, the heavy wooden door of the room pushed open.

Margaret walked in, her dark wool coat still damp from the rain outside.

She carried her leather briefcase under her arm, her expression sharp and focused.

She walked straight to the side of my bed and placed a firm hand on my shoulder.

“I’m here,” Margaret said.

“Nathan?” I whispered, my voice trembling as the monitor continued its steady beat.