I detached her cables from the hook in the stone, leading her once more through the tunnel, following the sound of the infant’s cries. My father was already standing impatiently. “What’s wrong with her?” he demanded.
Muriel dragged her feet to him as if the mere presence of my father continued to drain her life force away. She raised her bound hands to gently touch the baby’s cheek, looking down in hardened neutrality, but after leaning her ear to the child’s chest, her expression softened into sympathy. “Her heart is beating too fast. She’s pale, and her limbs are cold and weak. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s suffering from congenital heart failure. It’s a common defect of premature infants,” said Muriel.
“Fix her,” demanded my father.
Muriel glanced at me, reminding me of what sh
