The sliding doors of Bayridge General Hospital opened with a weary hiss, releasing a breath of humid coastal air into the brightly lit emergency lobby. It was well past midnight in southern Florida, an hour when the building usually settled into a tense quiet filled only with monitors beeping and tired footsteps echoing down polished floors. On this night, however, that silence was broken by the arrival of a child who looked as though he had wandered out of a nightmare rather than a neighborhood.
The boy could not have been more than eleven. He was painfully thin, his arms marked with fading bruises that told stories no child should carry. His bare feet were cracked and bleeding, leaving faint red smears on the white tile with each step he took forward. He did not cry. He did not call out. He walked as if sound itself was dangerous.
Clutched against his chest was a baby girl, small enough to fit beneath his chin. Her head lolled unnaturally, her lips pale, her body frighteningly still.