The hospital corridor was silent except for the soft hum of the lights and the distant beeping of machines. The silence was not a peaceful one—it was the kind of silence that follows a storm, when the wind has died and the rain has stopped but the air is still thick with the memory of violence.

The distant beeping of machines came from somewhere down the hall, beyond the double doors, from rooms where other families waited, other lives hung in the balance, other hearts pounded with the same desperate hope that pounded in her own chest.