Dorothy sat in the parking lot of St. Catherine’s, staring at the fake ultrasound on her phone. Twenty weeks. The anatomy scan. The most detailed ultrasound of the entire pregnancy.
She’d spent two hours last night in the hospital’s imaging system after her shift, searching for the perfect scan to steal. She’d needed a twenty-week ultrasound where the parents had chosen not to know the s*x—those were labeled differently in the system, the relevant images carefully angled to keep the baby’s gender hidden.
She’d found one from six weeks ago. A healthy baby, all measurements normal, no complications. She’d taken screenshots of four different images—profile view, hand, feet, the spine. Edited each one carefully, changing the patient name, the date, the hospital information.
Now she had proo
