The steel doors slid shut, sealing us in together.

We’d won the battle in the boardroom.

But listening to the shallow breathing of my baby, I knew the most terrifying fight was still ahead.

The move from the opulent hush of Pierce Tower to the chaotic brightness of Seattle Presbyterian’s pediatric oncology ward was a brutal whiplash. The smell of leather and money gave way to bleach and impending grief.

Preston used his name, and his newly reclaimed authority, to bypass every waiting list and every protocol.

Within the hour, Grace was hooked to an array of monitors in an isolation room, the rhythmic beep of her heart the only sound that mattered in our universe.