Chapter 10
The white walls of the county hospital room felt clinical yet safe, smelling faintly of antiseptic and bleached cotton sheets. Elena lay propped up against two pillows, watching the steady green line of the fetal monitor pulse rhythmically on the bedside machine. The door clicked open softly, and a nurse walked in carrying a small plastic tray with a turkey sandwich and a carton of milk. "How are you holding up, honey?" the nurse asked, adjusting the IV drip in Elena's forearm. "I'm okay," Elena said, her voice sounding stronger than it had in months. She looked out the window at the gray Michigan sky, watching the first light snowflakes begin to drift down past the glass. For the first time, the future didn't feel like a script written by someone else. Her phone—a cheap prepaid model provided by the sheriff's office—sat on the bedside table, silent and dark. No notifications, no live chat, no countdown timers. Just the quiet rhythm of the hospital and the steady movement of the snow outside.
