Cold, viscous gel smeared across Julianne’s lower abdomen.
Dr. Harrison moved the transducer in a slow, practiced arc over her skin. The rhythmic, rapid thump-thump-thump of the fetal heartbeat filled the sterile examination room, broadcasting clearly from the machine's small speakers.
"Strong," the doctor noted, tapping the keyboard to capture a still image on the monitor. "Given the acute physiological stress your body endured during the toxin flush last week, the gestational sac shows zero signs of detachment. The baseline is holding."
Julianne let out a long breath. She wiped a stray drop of gel from her hip with a paper towel. The crushing weight of the subterranean archive, Edmund’s confession, and the twenty-year-old letter currently resting in her coat pocket temporarily receded
