A man in a white lab coat walked into the room. A doctor. I recognized him. Dr. Sterling. He was the chief of surgery at St. Jude’s, the same hospital where Tessa was lying in a coma. Why was he here? I pressed my ear against the glass, straining to hear. Complications? Sterling was saying, but she is stable for now. And the extraction? Victor asked.
Successful? Sterling nodded. The C-section was performed immediately upon arrival. The trauma induced labor, but the fetus was viable. 32 weeks, not 8. The report Eleanor saw was old. She was much further along than she told anyone. My niece hit the grass. 32 weeks. That’s 8 months. She had been hiding it. She had been wearing loose clothes, staying home. She was protecting him.
And the child, Victor asked, his voice was devoid of any grandfatherly warmth. He is in the neonatal incubator in the basement, Sterling said. Healthy, strong lungs. Good. Victor said, “My buyer arrives tomorrow.” A healthy male heir fetches a high price in the black market adoption circles, especially with clean genetics. The world went silent.
