The fluorescent light above Elara Quinn’s bed flickered every few seconds. She had counted eleven interruptions before she lost track. Her body still shook from labour, and each breath caught against a deep ache beneath her ribs. The room smelled of antiseptic and warm plastic.
A cradle stood beside the bed. It was empty. Elara reached for it anyway, dragging one hand across the sheet until her fingertips touched the cool metal rail.
“Where is she?” Her voice barely carried beyond the pillow. “I didn’t hear her cry.”
The doctor came to the other side of the bed with a clipboard held against her chest. She was young enough that Elara noticed the effort it took to keep her expression steady.
“Dr. Quinn, there were complications immediately after the delivery. Your daughter’s lungs were severely underdeveloped. We tried to establish effective breathing, but—”
“But what?”
The doctor glanced at the monitor. “Her heart rate fell. The neonatal team intervened.”
Elara waited for her to finish. Beyond the door, someone pushed a trolley along the corridor. Its wheels rattled over a join in the tiles, then fell quiet.
“I want to see her,” Elara said.
“You need to recover from the delivery.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
The doctor lowered her eyes to the clipboard. “We did everything we could.”
