Samuel turned the corner onto the street where his law office stood.

It was a brick building with dark windows, looking cold under the Denver sky.

We ran inside, shielding the baby from the rain with Samuel’s trench coat.

The office smelled of old paper and coffee grounds.

Samuel unlocked his inner office and flipped on the desk lamp.

Julian immediately set his laptop on the desk and plugged in an ethernet cable.

“I’m tunneling into the Westbridge security mainframe,” Julian said.

His keyboard clicked rapidly in the quiet room.

I stood over his shoulder, holding my breath.

The screen flickered, then split into four grey-scale video feeds.

One showed the main lobby of the Westbridge Fertility Clinic.

Another showed the hallway outside the laboratory.

The third was the server room, filled with tall metal racks and blinking blue lights.

The fourth was the rear parking lot.

“There,” Samuel said, pointing a finger at the screen.

A pair of headlights cut through the rain on the parking lot feed.

A black sedan pulled into the frame, parking crookedly across two spaces.

It was Ethan’s car.