Inside, a small white crib sat under a warm yellow light.

A series of thin black wires ran from the crib to a tall rack of monitors.

The screen showed a steady, healthy heartbeat.

My hand shook as I reached for the door handle.

I pushed the door open.

The baby in the crib did not stir.

She was wrapped in a pink blanket.

A small plastic band was wrapped around her tiny ankle.

I stepped closer.

The name on the band read: *Clara Whitmore.*

My throat tightened.

She had my nose.

She had Maren’s soft, dark hair.

“I found her,” I whispered into the mic.

“Get her out of there, Rowan,” Marcus said. “The primary power is coming back online.”

“I’m disabling the monitors,” I said.

I reached for the sensor cables connected to her blanket.

My fingers touched the first wire.

Suddenly, the red lights in the room flashed green.

The monitors emitted a high-pitched, continuous whine.

A speaker on the wall crackled to life.

“I knew you wouldn’t sign, Rowan,” Tessa’s voice said from the ceiling.

The heavy steel door of room four slid shut behind me.