“No.” The word cracked out like a whip.

Melissa turned her face away, her eyes fixed on the sterile white wall. Her right hand continued stroking the first baby, but the movements were mechanical now, devoid of warmth. The beep of the heart monitor marked an accelerated rhythm.

“I don’t want that one,” she said coldly. “Take it away.”

The air in the delivery room seemed to solidify into ice. The nurse, a fifty-year-old woman named Ruthie, dropped the tray of instruments she was carrying. The clatter of metal against the vinyl floor echoed like thunder.

“Mrs. Thornton,” I said, taking another step toward the bed. “This is your son. A birthmark doesn’t change that.”