We reached the stairwell and slipped inside, the heavy metal door slamming shut behind us.
The stairwell was dim and smelled of cold concrete.
“Mom,” Lily whispered after a moment, pressing her ear to the door.
“They’re still out there.”
My heart pounded.
“We have to go down.”
We started descending the stairs slowly.
Halfway down, Lily froze.
“I hear voices,” she said.
From below, faint words echoed upward.
“Check the stairwell.”
“They couldn’t have gone far.”
They were already searching.
I spotted a small service door on the landing and pulled Lily toward it.
We slipped inside a narrow maintenance corridor filled with pipes and storage shelves.
Footsteps echoed behind us.
“They were just here,” someone said.
Lily grabbed my arm.
“They’re coming.”
We hurried deeper into the corridor until it ended at a metal door with a glowing EXIT sign above it.
I pushed it open.
Cold night air rushed in.
We stepped into the hospital parking lot.
Relief flooded through me—until I saw the black van parked directly outside the door.
Its engine was running.
Two men stood beside it.
Both slowly turned toward us.
One lifted a radio to his mouth.
“They’re outside.”
My blood turned to ice.
The closer man stepped forward calmly.
“Ma’am,” he said.
“Please come with us.”
I stepped back, clutching my newborn tighter.
And in that moment, a terrifying realization hit me.
This wasn’t a misunderstanding.
They had been waiting for us.
