“Exactly,” he said.

“Which makes this all the more tragic.” He reached into my chart, and drew out an ultrasound image, and placed it on the tray between them, and on it, faint but unmistakable, were two tiny silhouettes.

And I understood, with a grief that eclipsed even the pain of my wounds, what the doctor was about to tell my husband, and what my husband, in his rage over a fabricated scratch, had destroyed.

Chapter 6 — The Ultrasound