"She's going to throw the baby out—lock up the ward!" a guard shouted, boots slamming on concrete.
"Move!" the warden barked. "Cells one through six, now!"
Laney Farrell gripped the metal cot and pushed through a contraction like a running engine trying to catch. Pain cut, she swore, and kept her voice steady because screaming would only hand them the dramatic version they craved.
"Tell me where he is," she forced out between breaths. "You tell me and I—"
"Quiet," an attendant snapped. "We have orders."
"Orders from who?" Laney tried to stand and slid back down. Her pants were wet, her shirt plastered. The fluorescent light made the blood look like a cheap prop.
"From the ward. From management." The guard's eyes flicked to the camera and away. "Don't make this worse."
Veronica Yates arrived the way she arrived everywhere—late, polished, with two attendants in matching black dresses and a smile that opened like a blade.
"Laney," Veronica said, as if testing the name on her tongue. "You chose a dramatic entrance."
"Where's my baby?" Laney said. The word sounded small next to the clank of the shutter door.
"You should be grateful," Veronica said, stepping closer. She crouched as if inspecting the cot, and the guards moved back on cue. "You should be thankful for what I did."
"Thank you?" Laney laughed through a contraction that doubled her over. "You drugged me. You put me here. You dosed me."
Veronica's smile
