Vance before his abrupt resignation.

They had no idea I was holding the medical proof of why every embryo created in that clinic had failed before it reached twelve weeks.

The driver glanced at his rearview mirror as we started up the ramp into the tunnel.

“Kennedy Airport, Terminal Four, right?” the driver asked.

“Terminal Four,” I said. “Gate B12, please.”

I picked up my phone again, unlocked it, and opened a new text draft.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard as the car came out of the tunnel into the open night air of Queens.