The girl arrived at Northbridge General Hospital just before noon. The sun was harsh, the pavement shimmering, and the heat clung to everything like a thick sheet. Her name was Alina Cresswell, though she did not offer it at first. She pushed a battered wheelbarrow whose single wheel squeaked in protest at every turn. Inside the metal basin lay two infants wrapped in pieces of cloth that once might have been bright. Now they were dull and stiff with dried residue. The babies were frighteningly still. Their breathing was shallow. Their lips were pale as frost.
Alina herself looked as if she had walked through a storm. Her hair was tangled. Her bare feet were torn. Her small hands were streaked with grit. She did not cry. She did not ask for help. She simply went to the first adult in a uniform and tugged at the sleeve until the woman turned.