They called the 36-week-old baby in my womb a tumor.

The cold morning air hit my lungs like a physical blow, shocking my system as I lay sprawled across the damp grass of the public park.

Above me, the sky was a pale, bruised shade of gray, the last remnants of the storm clouds breaking apart over the jagged peaks of the downtown skyline. A block away, the copper dome of the municipal courthouse gleamed in the early sunlight, looking cold, majestic, and entirely indifferent to the nightmare playing out in its shadow.

I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees, shivering violently. The hospital gown I was wearing was torn at the hem, soaked with greywater on one side, and stained dark red with fresh blood where my surgical stitches had ruptured during the escape.

I need to move, I told myself, my teeth chattering so hard I could barely form the thoughts. They’ll be out of the service tunnels within five minutes.

Using the trunk of a massive oak tree for support, I dragged myself to my feet. My bare feet were caked in mud, and the cold grass bit into my skin like needles, but I forced myself forward, staggering out from beneath the trees onto the paved pedestrian walkway.

Pedestrians in business suits and heavy trench coats hurried past me on their morning commutes, clutching travel mugs of coffee and staring straight ahead. None of them looked twice at the pale, disheveled woman in a blood-stained hospital gown wandering the park at seven in the morning. In a city this size, human wreckage was just part of the morning scenery.

I needed shelter. I needed a phone. And above all, I needed someone who wasn't on the payroll of Whitmore Global Enterprises or the county medical board.

My mind flashed back to the nurse midwife who had tried to save me in the recovery room before security dragged her away.

Maya Santos.

Where would a suspended, whistleblower nurse go when the entire hospital network was hunting her?

Not her apartment—that would be the first place corporate security would stake out. Not the main clinic.

St. Jude’s Community Clinic. A small, independent charity-run medical outpost nestled in the historic East End district, three miles away—a place that operated entirely on donations, underground medical supplies, and fierce, unyielding protection for mothers who fell through the cracks of the corporate healthcare system.

It was a long shot. Three miles in a hospital gown, bleeding from a fresh C-section, with no money, no phone, and no shoes.

One step at a time, I told myself, taking my first agonizing stride down the concrete sidewalk.

It took me an hour and twenty minutes to walk the first mile.

By the time I reached the commercial district, my legs felt like lead weights filled with boiling oil. Every breath burned my chest, and the world had begun to tilt and weave in and out of focus, gray shadows creeping in from the edges of my vision.

I ducked into the alcove of a closed bakery to catch my breath, leaning my forehead against the cool glass of the display window, watching my own reflection ripple in the morning light. I looked like a ghost—pale, hollow-cheeked, with dark purple bruises under my eyes and blood soaking through the front of my gown.

You are Sarah Miller, I whispered to my reflection, pressing my palm against my abdomen where my daughter should have been resting safely against my warmth. You are Emma’s mother. Don't you dare stop.

A city bus rumbled down the avenue, stopping at the corner fifty feet away.

On the side of the bus was a large, brightly painted advertisement for a new upscale pediatric clinic opening downtown—funded by Whitmore Global Enterprises.

Beneath the corporate logo was a smiling photograph of Dr. Malcolm Reed holding a healthy, swaddled newborn baby wrapped in a pink blanket with a silver moon.

My blood ran cold.

They weren't just hiding what they had done. They were parading it. They were building their brand on the stolen life of my daughter, using her as a poster child for their elite reproductive empire while I bled out in a service tunnel.

A surge of pure, primal fury cleared the dizziness from my head.

I pushed off from the bakery window and started walking again, faster this time, ignoring the tearing pain in my abdomen, ignoring the cold bite of the pavement against my bare feet.

By nine o'clock, the towering brick steeple of St. Jude’s Church came into view, its copper cross catching the morning sun above a small, overgrown courtyard filled with park benches and drying laundry lines.

Attached to the rear of the church was the low-slung, cinder-block annex of the community clinic. A small hand-painted sign by the front door read: OPEN TO ALL MOTHERS AND CHILDREN. NO QUESTIONS ASKED.

I crossed the gravel parking lot, my breath coming in ragged gasps, and threw my weight against the heavy wooden front door of the clinic.

It swung open with a soft squeak.

The interior was warm, smelling of boiled chamomile tea, baby powder, and old floor wax. A handful of women sat on folding chairs in the waiting area, holding infants wrapped in colorful blankets, while a receptionist behind a sliding glass window sorted through a stack of pamphlets.

When I stumbled through the threshold, dripping with mud, water, and blood, the entire waiting room went dead silent.

The receptionist stood up so fast her chair screeched against the linoleum floor.

“Oh, my God,” she gasped, running around the desk toward me. “Honey, you’re bleeding. Sit down—someone help me get her into the triage room!”

“I’m... I’m looking for Maya Santos,” I managed to choke out, my knees finally giving way beneath me as the world dissolved into a rush of blackness.

“I’m right here,” a familiar, sharp voice answered from down the hallway.

A pair of hands caught me just before I hit the floor, easing me down onto the warm linoleum.

I opened my eyes one last time before the darkness took me completely. Maya Santos was kneeling beside me, her face pale with shock, her hands gently pressing against my blood-soaked gown.