Chapter 7: Transfer
The next hour moved with controlled speed.
Dr. Reed made three calls from the internal line. Each conversation was brief, precise, and stripped of anything Aaron could later twist into concern or misunderstanding. She requested an urgent protected transfer to a facility outside his primary hospital network, cited active forensic obstetrics protocol, and confirmed that the patient was a competent adult refusing contact with the individuals currently outside the building. When she finished, she turned to me.
“The receiving team will arrive through the rear service entrance. You will not walk through the front. You will not pass the parking lot where they are waiting.”
I nodded. My hands remained curved around my belly. My son had settled into a low, restless rhythm, as if he too understood that stillness was no longer safe.
The nurse brought a set of plain clothes from the clinic’s emergency supply—soft pants, a loose top, non-slip socks. I changed in the small bathroom attached to the consultation room while Dr. Reed stood outside the door. The paper gown went into a biohazard bag. I kept the cardigan. The folded chain-of-custody receipt stayed in the inner pocket.
When I came out, Dr. Reed handed me a new temporary patient band that carried only an alphanumeric code and the receiving facility’s designation. My full name did not appear on it.
“This is intentional,” she said. “Until the samples are fully logged and the initial findings reviewed, we limit identifiable information in transit.”
Outside, the security monitor still showed Aaron’s car in the lot. He had moved to the driver’s seat and was speaking rapidly into his phone. Sylvia stood near the passenger side, the silver cup finally lowered but not set down. She looked toward the clinic entrance with the same patient expression she had worn every morning at my bedside.
I turned away from the screen.
The rear service door opened with a low electronic tone. Two medical transport staff entered, both in plain dark uniforms without hospital logos. They carried a wheelchair and a second locked courier case. Dr. Reed transferred the original sealed samples into the new case, verified the electronic seals, and signed the updated custody form. I signed beneath her name.
No one spoke more than necessary.
I sat in the wheelchair. The nurse draped a light blanket over my lap and shoulders. Dr. Reed walked beside me as they pushed me toward the rear exit.
“You will be admitted under observation,” she said quietly. “I will follow within the hour. Do not accept any calls. Do not confirm your location to anyone who is not part of the receiving team or me.”
I looked at her.
May you like
“What if he finds the facility?”
“Then the facility’s security and legal team will handle it. Your refusal of contact is already documented. He does not get to override it by arriving in a white coat.”
