Tessa blinked, the manic energy draining from her face, replaced by a sudden, crushing exhaustion.

“She was crying,” Sarge went on, his voice softening, the gravel smoothing out. “She just needed someone to tell her she was going to be okay. You have a beautiful little girl. But she needs you to fight for her now. Not against us. For her.”

Tessa stared at him, chest heaving. She looked past his shoulder and caught a glimpse of her daughter, sleeping peacefully in the warm glow of the incubator, the monitors reading a steady green.

The fight went out of her completely. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed sobbing into the arms of the guards — not with rage now, but with the terrible guilt of a mother who knows she is failing.

“Take her down to social services,” I told the guards quietly. “Get her evaluated. Tell them she’s ready to talk.”

They led her away, the double doors sealing the quiet back into the unit.