On the reverse side were two smaller words.
CALL DANIEL.
A phone number followed.
Daniel.
The name settled like a stone in my stomach.
No emergency contact had been entered into her hospital record. Perhaps the paramedics had not noticed the engraving. Perhaps Hannah had chosen not to list anyone.
I told myself Daniel could be a brother, a friend, a physician.
But Hannah had no brother.
At least, she hadn’t five years ago.
I handed the bag back.
“Make sure this goes to security.”
The nurse nodded, then hesitated.
“The baby boy has your eyes.”
My gaze moved sharply to the incubator.
She gave an embarrassed smile. “I’m sorry. That was inappropriate.”
“It’s all right.”
She walked away.
I stared at the child.
His eyes were closed.
At thirty-two weeks, with swelling and medical tape covering much of his face, he could have resembled anyone.
Still, the comment followed me all the way downstairs.
Hannah remained unconscious through the night.
Her condition improved slowly, though she required medication to maintain her blood pressure. I reviewed her laboratory results, her imaging, and every note in her chart. I told myself it was because I had operated on her.
It was partly true.
At three in the morning, I found a social worker outside the intensive care unit.
Her name was Elena Ruiz, and she had been trying to locate Hannah’s next of kin.
“She has almost no digital footprint,” Elena said. “No active social media. Her address is a rented room in Cicero. Employment agency placed her at the warehouse six weeks ago.”
“What about before that?”
“A series of temporary jobs. Home care, restaurant work, hotel laundry. Nothing consistent.”
“Insurance?”
“Medicaid application pending.”
I looked through the glass wall toward Hannah’s bed.
“What about Daniel?”
Elena glanced up. “Who?”
“There’s a phone number engraved on her medical bracelet.”
“That didn’t appear in the intake report.”
I wrote it down.
Elena studied the number, then entered it into her hospital phone.
The call went directly to a recorded message saying the subscriber was unavailable.
“No voicemail,” she said.
“Can you trace it?”
“Not without a valid reason.”
“Three hospitalized patients with no legal contact seems like a valid reason.”
“It may be. I’ll speak to administration in the morning.”
I nodded.
As she turned to leave, I said, “Please don’t mention my connection to Hannah.”
Elena paused.
“Your connection?”
“We knew each other years ago.”
“How well?”
“Well enough that she may not want me involved once she wakes up.”
Elena’s gaze sharpened, but she did not press.
“I’ll handle it carefully.”
When Hannah finally regained consciousness, morning light had begun to color the windows.
I was in the hall speaking with her intensivist when a nurse hurried out.
“She’s awake.”
My body reacted before my mind did. I stepped toward the room, then stopped.
Maya’s warning returned.
She may not want you involved.
“Is she stable?” I asked.
“For now.”
“Tell her the babies are alive. Don’t overwhelm her.”
The nurse nodded.
I remained outside.
Through the glass, I watched Hannah blink against the brightness. She tried to move, winced, then looked around with rising panic.
The nurse leaned close and spoke to her.
Hannah’s lips formed a question.
The babies.
Even without hearing, I knew.
The nurse answered.
Hannah closed her eyes. Tears slipped toward her temples.
I should have walked away.
Instead, I stood there until her gaze moved past the nurse and found me through the glass.
The relief vanished from her face.
She stared at me for several seconds.
Then she turned her head away.
The message was unmistakable.
I left.
For the next six hours, I stayed out of her room.
I spoke with the physicians responsible for her care but did not make decisions. I reviewed the babies’ progress with Maya. The girl was responding well. The boy had experienced a brief seizure, but medication had controlled it. They would need time before the long-term effects of the oxygen loss could be understood.
Near noon, Elena found me in the doctors’ lounge.