She looked terrible — hair matted, clothes filthy, eyes wide and darting with the paranoid intensity of someone strung out and cornered.

Two hospital security guards flanked her, out of breath, as if they’d chased her up the stairs.

“Ma’am, you can’t be in here without scrubbing in!” one guard said, reaching for her arm.

“Get your hands off me!” Tessa screamed, shoving him back with shocking strength. “Where is my baby? They told me you were trying to take her away! Where is she?!”

Her eyes swept the room, past the empty bed seven, and locked onto the corner — a giant, scarred man in tactical gear holding her child.

“What the hell is he doing with my baby?!” She charged across the linoleum, unpredictable, desperate, running on volatile adrenaline. Her hand dove into her pocket and closed around something metallic — keys, or maybe worse.