Around seven that morning, a nurse came in and told us we could meet the baby as soon as the paperwork was finished.
Kayla had already chosen her name.
Lily.
Mom whispered it again and again, holding her hands together as though the name itself were a prayer that might somehow bring her daughter back.
Then the elevator doors opened.
Six men stepped into the hallway.
They wore black leather vests, heavy boots, and expressions that made them look as though life had given them every reason to stop believing in kindness. Most had gray beards. One had a long gray ponytail. The biggest man among them carried an empty pink infant car seat with its price tag still dangling from the handle.
They didn’t approach the reception desk.
They didn’t ask for directions.
The charge nurse simply looked up, nodded at them, and stepped aside.
I stood so quickly that my chair slammed against the wall.
