That knowledge had haunted her. She studied in secret for years—watching pirated lectures, memorizing discarded protocols, learning words that didn’t belong to her world: hypoxia, neuroprotection, neonatal resuscitation.
Now, hearing another baby declared gone, she didn’t think. She moved.
She dropped the mop, rushed into a supply room, grabbed a bucket, filled it with ice. Her hands shook as she lifted it. It was heavy, cutting into her palm. She ran up the service stairs, ignoring the shouting behind her, heart pounding.
What if something could still be done?
When she reached maternity, the door was open. Inside, the air smelled sterile, expensive, indifferent. The baby lay still. The mother looked gone. The father was broken. The doctor was already preparing to leave.
Angela stepped in, gripping the bucket.
“Who let her in?” a nurse snapped.
She didn’t answer. She set the bucket down with a loud thud. Everyone stared—at the ice, then at her: gray uniform, worn sneakers, hair tied back hastily, breathing hard.
“It’s not too late,” she said, voice shaking. “Let me try.”
The doctor stepped forward, furious.
“This is completely inappropriate. Leave immediately.”
But Richard raised his hand.