He lunged toward the hallway, his heart hammering against his ribs in a frantic rhythm that felt entirely too loud. A young nurse with a clipboard tucked under her arm was hurrying past, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking against the polished linoleum. Mark grabbed her arm, his grip far tighter than he intended, his fingers digging into her scrubs.
“Listen to me,” Mark demanded, his voice rising, desperation bleeding through his calculated facade. “My wife is Emily Carter. She had triplets here. Emergency C-section. Friday afternoon. I need to know which room they transferred her to. Stop playing games.”
The nurse winced, pulling her arm free with a sharp tug. She looked at him not with professional deference, but with a cold, creeping dread that made Mark’s stomach plummet into his shoes.
“Mr. Carter?” she asked, her voice dropping to a cautious whisper. “Mark Carter?”
“Yes! Me! Now where are they?”
“Mr. Carter, you need to come with me to the administrative desk,” she said, her eyes darting nervously down the corridor. “Right now.”
“I don’t want a desk! I want my wife and my daughters!” Mark shouted, a few heads turning from neighboring rooms. The doors were mostly shut, but the heavy hush of a hospital wing hung thick in the air.
“Sir, your wife was discharged four days ago,” the nurse repeated, her tone hardening as she faced him square on. “By order of hospital administration and the coroner’s office. Her signature was processed, her belongings were packed into a single standard-issue biohazard box, and she signed herself out against medical advice—or rather, her legal release was executed under exceptional circumstances because no next-of-kin could be reached by phone for seventy-two hours.”
Mark felt the blood drain from his face, leaving him dizzy. “Seventy-two hours? I was reachable! I was... I had my phone on silent for a meeting!”