Before fear could stop her, she stepped past the security line while nurses hurried by. The ICU door stood slightly open as Dr. Bradley shouted orders in the hall.
Sofia slipped inside.
The machines were loud; the air was icy. Up close, the boy looked fragile. She climbed onto a stool and scanned the instrument tray. Her fingers closed around a pair of long stainless-steel forceps.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “You have to hold on.”
With gentle fingers, she opened his mouth. His throat was red and swollen. At first, nothing. But Sofia knew it hid when the light hit it.
She picked up an otoscope and angled the beam deeper.
“Come out,” she murmured.
The boy coughed faintly.
There—a ripple near the entrance of the esophagus. Not mucus. Not tissue. Something alive.
Sofia inserted the forceps carefully. The metal touched his throat and alarms spiked.
“What are you doing?!” a nurse screamed from the doorway.
“Security!”
Footsteps thundered down the hall, but Sofia didn’t stop. She clamped down and pulled. Resistance. It clung stubbornly.
“I’ve got you,” she thought, and yanked with every ounce of grief she carried.
A guard grabbed her arm, dragging her backward. She fell—but kept hold.