PART 4 — THE CHILD IN THE WRONG CRADLE
The monitor screamed.
A nurse opened the incubator while another prepared a tiny oxygen mask.
“Heart rate is forty!”
“Begin compressions.”
Two fingers pressed against the baby’s chest.
Again.
Again.
Again.
I tried to stand from the wheelchair.
Pain ripped through my incision.
Mr. Sullivan caught my shoulders.
“Danielle, you’ll tear your stitches.”
“I need to touch her!”
“You can’t help her right now.”
The doctors surrounded the incubator until I could see only flashes of pink skin between their arms.
Dr. Bennett squeezed air into the baby’s lungs.
“Come on, little one.”
The monitor continued its terrible alarm.
I pressed both hands over my mouth.
Whether she was my daughter or another woman’s child no longer mattered.
She was a baby fighting for her life.
And somewhere, another infant was trapped with Grace.
“Please,” I whispered. “Please don’t let her die.”
A nurse injected medication through the baby’s IV.
For one endless second, nothing happened.
Then the monitor beeped.
Once.
Twice.
The heart rate began climbing.
“Sixty.”
“Seventy-five.”
“Ninety.”
The tiny girl’s chest lifted.
A weak cry escaped her.
My knees gave out even though I was already sitting.
Dr. Bennett continued working until the baby’s heartbeat stabilized.
Then she turned toward me.
“She’s breathing again.”
I sobbed into my hands.
“Is she mine?”
“We’re sending blood for an emergency maternal DNA comparison. The lab is ready.”
“How long?”
“About two hours.”
“Two hours?”
“I know it feels impossible, but we need a reliable result.”
Mr. Sullivan crouched beside me.
“While the lab works, the police are tracing Grace’s call.”
“Paige said the baby with Grace wasn’t mine.”
“Yes.”
“Then where is my daughter?”
His eyes moved toward the incubator.
“Possibly right in front of you.”
I looked through the clear wall.
The tiny girl’s fingers curled beneath the hospital light.
I wanted to believe she was mine.
But the bracelet around her ankle belonged to St. Catherine’s.
And Grace had already forged so many things that I no longer trusted paper, screens, signatures, or faces.
The neonatal doors opened.
A detective entered with two police officers.
He introduced himself as Detective Aaron Reed.
“We traced the phone call to an area near St. Catherine’s Hospital,” he said. “The signal disappeared before we could identify the exact building.”
Mr. Sullivan handed him Paige’s phone records and the photograph of the adoption contract.
“Carter Medical Holdings owns property near that hospital.”
The detective looked at Mark.
Mark stood near the far wall between two officers.
His face was pale.
“What property?” Detective Reed asked him.
Mark hesitated.
“An old rehabilitation center.”
“Address?”
“I don’t remember.”
Mr. Sullivan’s expression hardened.
“You signed the company’s property disclosures.”
“My mother handled most of them.”
“Everything is always your mother’s fault.”
Mark glared at him.
“I’m trying to help.”
“Then stop pretending you know nothing.”
Detective Reed stepped between them.
“Mr. Carter, a newborn has been abducted. This is not the time to protect family secrets.”
Mark rubbed both hands over his face.
“It’s on Hawthorne Street. Behind St. Catherine’s east parking garage.”
“Is the building occupied?”
“It shouldn’t be.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Mark looked toward me.
My baby—or someone’s baby—lay behind the glass fighting to breathe.
I stared at him until he looked away.
“There’s a private maternity wing in the basement,” he admitted.
Dr. Bennett froze.
“A maternity wing?”
“My grandfather funded it years ago.”
“Why would a rehabilitation center have delivery rooms?”
Mark swallowed.
“It wasn’t always a rehabilitation center.”
“What was it?”
“A private clinic.”
Detective Reed took out his notebook.
“What kind of clinic?”
Mark said nothing.
Mr. Sullivan answered for him.
“A fertility clinic.”
The room became silent.
Mark slowly nodded.
“My grandmother founded it.”
“Name?” the detective asked.
“The Carter Center for Family Advancement.”
Dr. Bennett’s face changed.
“I know that name.”
Everyone looked at her.
“The clinic was investigated almost twenty-five years ago,” she said. “There were allegations involving falsified birth certificates and illegal private adoptions.”
“Were charges filed?” I asked.
“The records disappeared before investigators could complete the case.”
Mr. Sullivan looked at Mark.
“And your family later reopened the property under a different name.”
“I was a child,” he said.
“But you’re not a child now,” I replied.
Detective Reed turned toward the officers.
“Contact tactical response. No sirens until we confirm the location.”
Mark stepped forward.
“I can show you how to enter.”
One officer stopped him.
“You’re staying here.”
“There’s a tunnel from the hospital parking garage.”
Everyone stared at him.
Detective Reed narrowed his eyes.
“You said the building was closed.”
“It is.”
“Then why do you know about a tunnel?”
Mark’s answer came quietly.
“Because my mother took me there last year.”
My chest tightened.
“Why?”
Mark looked at me.
“She said she had found a way for us to have a child.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“You knew?”
“No. Not about this.”
“What exactly did she offer?”
“A private fertility arrangement.”
“You were still married to me.”
“We had been trying for years.”
“I was the one undergoing treatment!”
Mark’s eyes filled with shame.
“My mother said your body was rejecting me.”
I almost laughed.
Even then, Grace had made my pain sound like betrayal.
“What happened at the clinic?”
Mark stared at the floor.
“Dr. Cole examined me.”
“The doctor who lost his license?”
“I didn’t know that then.”
“And what did he say?”
“That my condition had worsened. He said natural conception was nearly impossible.”
I looked toward the incubator.
The prenatal paternity test had said Mark was the father.
But Mark had been told he was nearly infertile.
Again.
Only one year earlier.
“Did Dr. Cole offer you a donor?” Mr. Sullivan asked.
“He said there were other ways to continue a family line.”
“What ways?”
“He never explained.”
Detective Reed stepped closer.
“What did you sign?”
Mark’s face went blank.
“I didn’t sign anything.”
Paige’s earlier words echoed in my mind.
Grace said the house would be transferred.
Evelyn had a contract.
The hidden account had funded payments.
And Mark always claimed not to know.
“Search his phone,” I said.
Mark looked at me sharply.
“My phone is evidence from the courtroom.”
“Then search your email.”
“Danielle—”
“Search everything.”
Detective Reed nodded to an officer.
Mark’s expression changed.
Only slightly.
But I saw it.
Fear.
Before anyone could question him further, Detective Reed’s radio crackled.
“Possible location identified. Thermal movement in the basement of 214 Hawthorne Street.”
The detective turned toward the door.
“I’m going with you,” Mark said.
“No.”
“I know the tunnel.”
“You can explain it on a map.”
“There are locked doors. My fingerprint may still open them.”
The detective studied him.
Then pointed to one of the officers.
“Keep him restrained. He goes nowhere without you.”
Mark glanced at me.
“I’ll bring the baby back.”
I felt nothing when he said it.
No gratitude.
No hope.
Only suspicion.
“Bring Paige back too,” I replied.
His jaw tightened.
Then he left with the police.
The next hour moved more slowly than the eight years of my marriage.
The baby in the incubator remained stable.
Every few minutes, I asked Dr. Bennett whether the DNA results were ready.
Every time, she shook her head.
Mr. Sullivan sat beside me reviewing the documents recovered from Evelyn’s folder.
Most were legal forms.
Guardianship petitions.
Medical declarations.
Adoption agreements.
But one document made him stop.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A payment schedule.”
“To Paige?”
“No.”
He turned the paper toward me.
It listed six payments of fifty thousand dollars.
The recipient was identified only as Family One.
Another six payments were listed beneath it.
Recipient: Family Two.
Then another.
And another.
Dates stretched back twelve years.
“What does it mean?”
“I think Grace and Evelyn have done this before.”
My stomach turned.
“How many babies?”
“At least fourteen payments are marked completed.”
Dr. Bennett walked over.
“Completed?”
Mr. Sullivan pointed to a column labeled Placement Confirmed.
Every line contained a date.
A newborn’s sex.
A payment amount.
And a code.
M1.
F2.
M3.
“These aren’t just private adoptions,” Dr. Bennett said. “They’re orders.”
A nurse beside us whispered, “They were choosing babies.”
My hands became cold.
Somewhere, fourteen mothers might have been told their babies had died.
Somewhere, fourteen families might be raising children whose identities had been erased.
Mr. Sullivan flipped to the last page.
One entry had been added that morning.
Client: C-01
Requested sex: Male
Maternal source: D.C.
Delivery status: Active
D.C.
Me.
Grace had reduced my daughter to an order form.
“She thought I was carrying a boy,” I said.
Dr. Bennett frowned.
“Did you ever learn the baby’s sex?”
“No. I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“Then how did Grace believe it was a boy?”
Mr. Sullivan studied the document.
“She may have altered Danielle’s prenatal records.”
Dr. Bennett hurried to a computer.
She entered my patient number and opened the genetic screening report.
Her eyes narrowed.
“This is not the report I received.”
“What does it say?”
“Male fetus.”
“But my baby is a girl.”
“The report has been replaced.”
“Can you find the original?”
“I’m checking the laboratory archive.”
She typed quickly.
A second report appeared.
“Here.”
She turned the screen toward us.
Fetal sex: Female.
Grace had not only stolen my ultrasound.
She had changed the results so her plan would promise Mark a son.
My phone rang again.
This time, Detective Reed’s name appeared.
Mr. Sullivan answered on speaker.
“We entered the basement,” the detective said. “The facility is operational.”
“What do you mean operational?”
“Delivery rooms. Surgical equipment. Incubators. Paper records.”
“Did you find Grace?”
“Not yet.”
“Paige?”
“We found blood in one hallway.”
My breath caught.
“Whose blood?”
“We don’t know.”
A noise sounded behind the detective.
Men shouting.
A door crashing open.
Then a baby began crying.
I gripped the phone.
“Is that the baby?”
“We found an infant.”
“Is the baby alive?”
“Yes. Male. Appears full-term.”
The room around me went silent.
A full-term baby boy.
Not mine.
“Where is Paige?”
“Still searching.”
“What about Grace?”
“No sign of her.”
Then Mark’s voice came through the phone.
“Danielle!”
My entire body stiffened.
“Mark?”
“I found Paige.”
“Is she alive?”
“She’s hurt.”
A woman screamed in the background.
Paige.
Then Mark shouted something away from the phone.
Detective Reed returned.
“Paige has been located. She has a head injury, but she’s conscious.”
Relief moved through me.
“Let me speak to her.”
There was shuffling.
Then Paige’s weak voice came through.
“Danielle?”
“I’m here.”
“The baby Grace took isn’t yours.”
“We know. It’s a full-term boy.”
“She brought him from St. Catherine’s.”
“Whose child is he?”
“A woman named Rosa.”
“Who is Rosa?”
“I don’t know. Grace said Rosa signed everything.”
A man shouted in the background.
Paige began speaking faster.
“She didn’t sign. I heard her crying in the next room. Dr. Cole gave her something.”
“Is Rosa there?”
“We haven’t found her.”
“Where is Grace?”
Paige went silent.
“Paige?”
“She left before the police arrived.”
“How?”
“Through the tunnel.”
Detective Reed took the phone.
“The tunnel connects to the hospital parking structure. We’re checking cameras.”
“What about Dr. Cole?”
“We found him unconscious in an office.”
“Did Grace attack him?”
“Possibly.”
A monitor beeped behind him.
Then another officer spoke.
“Detective, you need to see this.”
The line became muffled.
A minute later, Reed returned.
“We found a second nursery.”
My throat tightened.
“How many babies?”
“No babies. Only empty bassinets.”
“How many?”
He hesitated.
“Twelve.”
Mr. Sullivan closed his eyes.
The scheme was larger than we had imagined.
Detective Reed continued.
“There are names attached to each bassinet.”
“Whose names?”
“Mothers.”
“Is mine there?”
“Yes.”
The word felt like a knife.
“And there’s another name you may recognize.”
“Who?”
“Paige Miller.”
I looked at Mr. Sullivan.
Paige had lost her baby at nine weeks.
There should never have been a bassinet prepared for her.
“What does her card say?”
The detective read it.
“Female infant. Delivered six months ago.”
Paige’s voice rose in the background.
“That’s impossible!”
“Paige,” I said, “you told us you miscarried.”
“I did!”
“Did you see the ultrasound after they told you?”
There was silence.
“No.”
“Did you have surgery?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“The old clinic.”
Mr. Sullivan stood.
“Who performed it?”
“Dr. Cole.”
Dr. Bennett’s face turned pale.
“Paige may not have miscarried.”
I stared at her.
“What are you saying?”
“If Paige was farther along than she believed, or if dates were falsified, they could have sedated her and delivered the baby later.”
“But she would know.”
“Not if she was kept medicated. Not if they told her complications required hospitalization.”
Paige began sobbing through the phone.
“I was there for three weeks. Grace said I had an infection.”
“Did you ever see your medical records?”
“No.”
Detective Reed spoke softly.
“Paige, the card has a placement date.”
“What date?”
He told her.
Paige screamed.
“That was the day Grace told Mark I had gone to visit my sister.”
Mark’s voice sounded behind her.
“You told me you needed space.”
“I was locked in a hospital bed!”
Paige’s cries broke into gasps.
“My baby didn’t die.”
No one answered.
She whispered the words again.
“My daughter is alive.”
Detective Reed spoke to someone nearby.
“We are taking every record from the building. We’ll find the placement information.”
Paige’s voice hardened.
“Find Grace first.”
The call ended.
The laboratory technician entered the neonatal unit thirty minutes later.
She carried a sealed envelope.
I stopped breathing.
Dr. Bennett met her beside the incubator.
“Is it conclusive?”
“Yes.”
She handed over the report.
Dr. Bennett read it once.
Then again.
I couldn’t wait.
“Tell me.”
She looked at me.
“The baby in this incubator is your daughter.”
A sound escaped me that was half laugh and half sob.
“My daughter?”
“Yes. The maternal relationship is confirmed.”
I pushed the wheelchair toward the incubator.
My body shook with relief.
The bracelet had been changed.
The records had been manipulated.
But my baby had never left the neonatal unit.
She was here.
Alive.
Fighting.
I slid my hand through the access opening.
Her tiny fingers closed around the tip of mine.
“Hello, sweetheart,” I whispered. “Mommy found you.”
Tears blurred everything.
I stayed beside her while the nurses adjusted her tubes.
For several minutes, the court case disappeared.
Grace disappeared.
Mark disappeared.
There was only my daughter’s hand wrapped around my finger.
“What will you name her?” Dr. Bennett asked.
I had considered dozens of names during the months I spent alone.
But now only one felt right.
“Hope.”
Dr. Bennett smiled.
“Hope Carter?”
I looked through the glass.
“No.”
My daughter would not carry a family name that had nearly turned her into property.
“Hope Danielle Brooks.”
Brooks was my maiden name.
The name I had before Mark.
The name Grace had tried to erase.
Mr. Sullivan nodded.
“I’ll make certain the birth certificate is protected.”
A police officer approached.
“Mrs. Carter, the abducted baby boy has been returned to his mother.”
“Rosa?”
“Yes. She was found sedated in a locked room at St. Catherine’s. She believed her son had died during delivery.”
I closed my eyes.
Grace had nearly stolen another woman’s entire life.
“Will Rosa be all right?”
“Doctors expect her to recover.”
“And Paige?”
“She’s being transported here.”
“Grace?”
“Still missing.”
The relief inside me became fear again.
Grace had lost the boy she wanted.
Her clinic had been discovered.
Her records were in police hands.
A woman like Grace would not simply run.
She would punish someone.
The neonatal doors opened.
Mark walked in with a police escort.
Blood stained the shoulder of his shirt.
“Were you hurt?” I asked before I could stop myself.
“It’s Paige’s blood.”
He looked at Hope.
His face broke.
“That’s her?”
“My daughter.”
“Our daughter.”
“You lost the right to use that word casually.”
He moved closer to the incubator.
The officer stopped him.
Mark raised his hands.
“I only want to see her.”
I studied him.
This was the man who had called me sterile.
The man who had brought his mistress to our divorce.
The man who had hidden money and medical records.
But he was also Hope’s biological father.
At least, that was what the prenatal test had said.
“You can look from there,” I told him.
Mark stared through the glass.
Tears filled his eyes.
“She’s so small.”
“She’s stronger than everyone who tried to destroy her.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry will not change what happened.”
“I know.”
“No, Mark. You don’t.”
I turned my wheelchair toward him.
“You knew about that clinic.”
“I told you what happened.”
“You knew your mother had plans for a child while we were still married.”
“I thought it was fertility treatment.”
“You knew money was hidden.”
“I didn’t know how much.”
“You knew Paige’s pregnancy was being used to force the divorce.”
“I believed she was pregnant.”
“But you enjoyed humiliating me.”
His face lowered.
“Yes.”
The answer surprised me.
For once, he did not blame Grace.
He did not blame alcohol.
He did not blame fear.
He simply admitted it.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because every time I looked at you, I saw what I believed I could never give you.”
“So you punished me for your shame.”
“Yes.”
Hope’s monitor continued its gentle rhythm.
I looked at my daughter.
“I will never let her learn love from someone who thinks cruelty is easier than honesty.”
Mark wiped his face.
“Give me one chance.”
“You had eight years.”
A nurse entered carrying a tablet.
“Mrs. Carter, hospital security recovered additional camera footage.”
Mr. Sullivan stepped closer.
“From the neonatal unit?”
“Yes. The system automatically backed up to an external server.”
She placed the tablet on the counter.
The video showed the hallway outside the operating room shortly after Hope’s birth.
Paige stood beside the bassinet.
She looked frightened.
Then Grace appeared wearing blue scrubs.
Grace handed her an envelope and pointed toward the service elevator.
Paige shook her head.
Grace grabbed her arm.
A second person entered the frame.
Mark.
I looked up from the tablet.
He was standing only a few feet away.
His face went white.
On the video, Mark spoke to Grace.
There was no sound.
But he clearly looked inside the bassinet.
Then he handed his mother an access card.
The same type of card used to open the restricted neonatal doors.
“What is this?” I whispered.
Mark stepped backward.
“That isn’t what it looks like.”
The video continued.
Paige pushed the covered bassinet toward the elevator.
Grace followed.
Mark remained behind.
He looked directly at the security camera.
Then he reached up and covered the lens with his hand.
The footage went black.
Every person in the room turned toward him.
The officer beside Mark immediately grabbed his wrists.
“Hands behind your back.”
“Wait!”
Metal cuffs closed around him.
I could barely breathe.
“You helped her.”
“No!”
“You gave her access.”
“She told me she was moving the baby for protection.”
“You knew?”
“I didn’t know she planned to steal anyone!”
Mr. Sullivan moved between us.
“What access card did you give Grace?”
Mark’s eyes raced around the room.
“It belonged to Dr. Cole.”
“How did you get it?”
“My mother gave it to me.”
“Why did you cover the camera?”
Mark had no answer.
The officer began reading him his rights.
Mark struggled.
“Danielle, listen to me!”
I stared at the man I had once trusted with my life.
“Was my daughter in that bassinet?”
“No.”
“How did you know?”
His silence answered me.
He had known the bassinet was empty.
He had known Paige was creating a decoy.
He had known enough to help Grace confuse security.
“You were part of it.”
“I was trying to protect Hope.”
“You did not even know she was a girl.”
“I was protecting my child.”
“From whom?”
Mark’s voice rose.
“From you!”
The room became completely silent.
He realized what he had said.
But it was too late.
I looked at him.
“From me?”
“My mother showed me the psychiatric reports.”
“The reports she forged.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“You watched me in the courtroom. Did I look insane?”
“You hid the pregnancy for seven months!”
“Because you abandoned me.”
“You planned to keep my child from me.”
“I planned to keep her safe.”
“Safe?”
I pointed toward the incubator.
“She stopped breathing because your family switched her identification and interfered with her care!”
Mark shook his head violently.
“That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
Mr. Sullivan’s eyes narrowed.
“What was supposed to happen?”
Mark froze.
The officer tightened his grip.
“What did your mother tell you?” Detective Reed asked from the doorway.
He had returned without anyone noticing.
Mark looked trapped.
“She said Danielle would be declared unstable.”
“And then?” the detective asked.
“Temporary custody would go to me.”
“And Grace?”
“She would help raise the baby.”
“So you did know about the guardianship petition.”
Mark closed his eyes.
“I signed it.”
My heart shattered in a completely new way.
The prenatal paternity test.
The hidden money.
The access card.
The psychiatric reports.
Mark had not been a helpless son manipulated by his mother.
He had been her partner.
Maybe not in every crime.
But in enough of them.
“You stood in that courtroom and begged me for another chance,” I said.
“I panicked.”
“Because your plan was falling apart.”
“I love my child.”
“You love possessing people.”
Detective Reed handed the officer an evidence bag.
Inside it was a flash drive.
“We found this in Mark Carter’s coat during the search.”
Mr. Sullivan looked at him.
“What is on it?”
“Copies of the forged psychiatric files, the guardianship petition, and a financial agreement.”
Mark stopped struggling.
The detective continued.
“The agreement promises Mark full control of Carter Medical Holdings once he obtains legal custody of a male heir.”
I stared at him.
“That was why you wanted the baby.”
“No.”
“You were going to trade our child for the company.”
“I thought the baby was mine!”
“She is yours!”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
“What did you mean?”
Mark stared at Hope.
Then at Detective Reed.
Then at me.
Mr. Sullivan stepped closer.
“What do you know about the baby’s paternity?”
Mark said nothing.
Dr. Bennett opened the DNA report again.
“We confirmed Danielle is the mother. We did not test the father.”
The prenatal paternity test suddenly felt heavy in my memory.
The envelope.
The result.
The 99.9 percent probability.
The proof that had silenced the courtroom.
“What did you do?” I whispered.
Mark’s lips trembled.
“My mother arranged the prenatal test.”
“No. My lawyer arranged it.”
“Your lawyer chose the laboratory.”
“Yes.”
“But the sample collected from me never reached that laboratory.”
Mr. Sullivan’s face changed.
“What are you saying?”
“My mother replaced it.”
“With whose sample?”
Mark looked at Hope.
His answer came so quietly I nearly missed it.
“My brother’s.”
I stared at him.
“You don’t have a brother.”
Mark began to cry.
“Yes, I do.”
Grace had another son.
A son nobody had ever mentioned.
A son whose DNA was close enough to Mark’s to manipulate a careless paternity comparison.
Detective Reed took a step forward.
“What is his name?”
Mark shook his head.
“I don’t know his real name.”
“What do you call him?”
Mark looked directly at me.
“Dr. Nathan Cole.”
The room spun.
The disgraced doctor.
Grace’s partner.
The man who had falsified birth records.
The man who had operated the secret clinic.
Nathan Cole was Mark’s brother.
And according to Mark, Nathan’s DNA had been used in my prenatal paternity test.
I gripped the edge of the wheelchair.
“Why would your mother use his sample?”
Mark could no longer look at me.
“Because she knew the truth.”
“What truth?”
He closed his eyes.
Then he said the words that shattered everything I believed about my pregnancy.
“Danielle, the child may not be mine.”
I looked at Hope inside the incubator.
My daughter.
My miracle.
My entire world.
“If you are not her father,” I whispered, “then who is?”
Mark raised his eyes.
“My mother believes Nathan is.”
The monitor beside Hope began beeping faster.
I could hear my own heartbeat roaring in my ears.
“I have never been with Nathan Cole.”
“I know.”
“Then how could he be my daughter’s father?”
Mark’s face collapsed.
“Because during your final fertility treatment, my mother paid the clinic to use his sample instead of mine.”
The room disappeared around me.
The injections.
The procedures.
The consent forms Grace insisted on reading.
The treatment Mark claimed had failed.
It had not failed.
My body had been used without my knowledge.
Hope had been conceived through a crime.
Before anyone could speak, Detective Reed’s phone rang.
He answered.
His expression immediately hardened.
“What do you mean he’s gone?”
Everyone watched him.
“When?”
He listened.
Then looked at me.
“Dr. Cole regained consciousness during transport.”
Mr. Sullivan stepped closer.
“And?”
“He escaped from the ambulance.”
“Where is Grace?”
“We believe she helped him.”
The detective ended the call.
At that moment, a text appeared on my phone.
Unknown number.
It contained a photograph taken through the neonatal unit window.
The image showed me sitting beside Hope’s incubator.
It had been taken only seconds earlier.
Grace was inside the hospital.
Beneath the photograph was one message:
You may have found your daughter, Danielle. But before this night ends, you will learn why Nathan chose you.
Then the lights in the neonatal unit went out……………………….
TO BE CONTINUED IN LAST PART…
