The fluorescent lights of the emergency department buzzed overhead, blending with the steady rhythm of monitors, hurried footsteps, and distant overhead pages. The Pitt Memorial Trauma Center never truly slept—it only shifted forms of chaos. Tonight, it came wrapped in a blanket no bigger than a towel.

Phylicia stood frozen near triage, still wearing one glove, the other hand clutching the edge of a faded pink receiving blanket. Her face had gone pale.

"I found her in the women's restroom," she said, voice thin with disbelief. "Second stall. Just... left there."

Inside the bundle, a tiny infant squirmed weakly, six weeks old at most. Her cries were hoarse, exhausted from too much time spent unheard.

Dr. Jack Abbot was already moving before anyone finished speaking, sleeves rolled, expression sharpened into that particular calm doctors wore when panic had no place to land. He glanced down at the baby, then immediately up toward you as you stepped into the bay.

"Thank God," he muttered, seeing you. "Pediatrics is here."

He handed the infant toward you carefully, like something breakable and priceless.

"Estimated six weeks. Cold to the touch, dehydrated maybe, no obvious trauma at first glance. Found alone in the restroom."

His jaw tightened. "No note. No mother." The baby's tiny fingers flexed against the blanket, brushing your wrist.

Jack's eyes met yours, steady but edged with anger he kept under lock and key.

"Tell me what you need, Doctor. Warmer, labs, social work, security footage—say it and it's done."

Around you, the ER noise continued like nothing had changed.

But in this bay, the world had narrowed to one abandoned child and the two doctors standing between her and whatever came next.