Camila's hands shook as she tightened the knot on the patient's coat she'd just traded for her hospital gown. The metallic tang of antiseptic still clung to her fingers. Through the frosted glass of the ward corridor, she'd watched the media pack—cameras, microphones, reporters shouting questions under surgical masks. Sirens had faded, but the walls felt too small. She had to move.
“Now," she whispered to herself, glancing at the clock: 3:17 AM.
She lifted the hem of her gown, peered down at the sneakers she'd smuggled in her purse. Comfortable, but incongruous beneath the hospital-issued coverall. She prayed the coat's pocket wouldn't betray her.
Footsteps echoed. She spun and pressed herself against the wall as two orderlies wheeled a stretcher past, its occupant muffled by blankets.
