“This child’s core temperature is dangerously low. If I hand him to security, he may not survive the walk to the car.”
“Then the county can—”
“The county is not here.”
A beat of silence.
Several staff members turned.
Greiss stared at her as if she had spoken a foreign language.
“You are forgetting your place.”
“My place is next to this baby.”
“One more word and I will have your badge.”
Lauren looked at the clock above the desk.
11:42 p.m.
Then at the baby.
Then at Josie, who held the gloves like a lifeline.
Eight months of hiding.
She had built a quiet life out of nothing.
A small apartment, a cat, a routine.
All of it, she realized, was only a coat.
And the coat was coming off.
“Imani,” she said without turning, “bring me a warm blanket from the infant warmer. Call the pediatric ER charge nurse. Tell her I’m bringing a hypothermic infant through door two.”
