SHE IS BORN.
She breathes.
She feels.
She shrieks.
At the cold. The light. The pain.
No retreat now. No comfort.
Just instinct.
A pair of hands lifts her. Wraps her in a blanket.
“We did it,” whispers a deep voice. “Again.”
She turns to the sound. Tries to focus on a face.
A door opens.
She moves. Sheltered by the arms.
Warm.
Her screams fade to whimpers.
She goes limp.
She sleeps.
When she awakens, the arms are carrying her through a shaft of blazing white.
“Did the mother leave a note?” asks a voice. Different. Softer. Higher.
“No.” The deep one. The one that makes her rumble.
“Look at the resemblance. It must be the same mother.”
“Have you notified the ICU, Dr. Rudin?”
“Of course.”
“Would you get the paperwork started for the adoption process?”
“Same agency as the last?”
“Please hurry. I need your help.”
“What shall I tell your daughter?”
“Tell her I’ll be another couple of hours.” Words. Rhythms. Gentle. Yes. “Please have somebody order her dinner.”
Motion. Speed. Sleep.
Before leaving Dr. Black, Julia Rudin adjusts the sleeping infant’s head. Briskly but delicately. In midstride.
On the back of the baby’s neck she spots a red arrow-shaped birthmark. The same as the other foundling—how long ago? A year?
As Dr. Black barges through the ICU door, the child’s face is peaceful. Trusting.
Dr. Rudin turns away and walks to a small waiting room. There, a twelve-year-old girl reads a magazine.
“Sorry, Whitney,” the young doctor begins. “Sort of bad news. Your dad told me—?
The girl puts down the magazine and looks up. “Eve,” she says.
“What?”
“That’s the baby’s name. Eve.”
“How do you know?”
Whitney smiles. And shrugs.
As the girl turns to pick up the magazine again, Dr. Rudin notices something on her neck.
A mark. Red and arrow-shaped.