Two hours later Naomi finds you in a consultation room with a coffee you have forgotten to drink.
“The baby’s going to make it,” she says first, because she knows enough about you to begin with the detonator. “Severe dehydration, some malnutrition, mild infection, but stable now.”
You exhale for what feels like the first time since the highway.
“And Addie?”
“Exhausted. Undernourished. Old injuries, newer injuries. Defensive as a cornered cat.” Naomi folds her arms. “She asked twice whether the security cameras here can be hacked.”
You stare at the floor. “Jesus.”
“She also asked whether people can buy children back once the government has them.”
That one lands differently.
You look up. Naomi has the expression doctors wear when their anger is too disciplined to call itself anger. “Talk to me.”
Naomi closes the door. “Addie finally gave us a partial story. Their mother died three months ago. Official cause was accidental overdose. Addie does not believe that. The stepfather started drinking harder after the funeral, then bringing men to the house. Men who noticed things. Men who asked questions about Lily.”
A cold pressure begins behind your ribs.
“Questions like what?”
“Whether the baby had papers. Birth certificate, Social Security number, medical records. Whether anybody outside the family knew she existed.”
You understand suddenly, horribly.
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