She closed her eyes, and tears welled beneath the swelling. “Did you… see him?”

“I did.” A broken laugh escaped him. “He’s stubborn. Fighting everyone in the nursery. Just like his mother.”

The corner of her mouth lifted, faintly.

A little later the pediatrician wheeled a mobile incubator in beside her bed. Inside lay Caleb — tiny, pink, impossibly resilient. She couldn’t hold him yet, so Hayden set the incubator against the rail, and she lifted her bandaged hand and pressed two fingers to the glass.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t ever apologize,” he said. “You saved his life. You hid the recorder. You left the clues. You fought harder than anyone I’ve ever known.”