She turned her head toward the digital wall clock, which read ten fifty-one.

“I’m locking down this desk and calling hospital security right now,” Elena said, reaching for the black desk phone.

“She’s still standing in the corner by the weight scales,” I said.

“I know,” Elena said, punching a three-digit extension into the keypad.

“She isn’t leaving this floor.”

I looked down at Brooklyn’s small sneakers on the linoleum floor.

Her laces had been dragged through dirt in the hospital parking lot, untied and frayed at the ends.

“Are you okay, baby?” I asked softly.