“Give her to me, please,” Betsy begged, sobbing like she was breaking inside. “One time, let me hug her one time. Please. Please.”

The doctor knew he shouldn’t. It was strictly forbidden. Betsy was in jail awaiting a murder trial. They were taking the baby downstairs to the adoptive parents immediately. But he looked at Betsy, crumpled in the bed, her pale face a mix of tears and desperation and devastation. She was so young. Thick, dark black hair. Thin. High cheekbones. Huge eyes, golden, like he’d never seen before. He needed a drink so bad. God almighty, he needed a drink.

The doctor turned to the guards—the one who had fainted now leaning woozily against the wall, and the other one who looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here—and spoke with authority. “You may go now.”

After the guards scuttled out, Dr. Rothney glanced at Clarissa. She nodded and unstrapped Betsy’s wrists. The doctor did not bother to strap her waist or her ankles up again, breaking all rules. The doctor gave the baby to the nurse, who cleaned her quickly, wrapped her in a pink blanket, and gave the baby to Betsy while the doctor finished his job between Betsy’s legs.

Betsy cried over her daughter, the nurse’s hand on her shoulder.

Thirty minutes later someone knocked on the door when Betsy was singing to Rose, a song about a girl who is loved by her mother and dances in a rose garden. “Privacy for the patient,” the doctor ordered. The knocking stopped.

Thirty minutes later, while Betsy cooed and sang and told her daughter, Rose, that she loved her, would always love her, there was another knock. “Privacy for the patient! Don’t interrupt.”

Dr. Rothney felt ill. He knew that he would have to take this baby from the mother soon. He would have Clarissa help. It was going to be an awful scene. It would haunt him, he knew. This wasn’t the first time this had happened, but this time it would be the worst, by far.

He hated this job, he did.

He watched Betsy cradle the little girl in the pink blanket, the baby’s eyes wide open, the two of them staring at each other. Betsy kissed the baby on her forehead, her little nose, her full cheeks. She was a gorgeous baby, alert, with dark hair and golden eyes—not blue, as usual, but golden, like her mother. It was so strange, the doctor thought, he had never seen eyes that color in a newborn . . . it was almost unheard of....

After forty-five minutes there was another knock. “The parents are waiting.”

“Privacy for the patient!” the doctor yelled, irritated, bracing for the excruciating scene to come.

“Oh no!” Betsy cried. “Oh no, please, please! I need more time.” She clung to the baby, sung to her, told her she loved her, that she looked like a pink rose.

The doctor wanted an entire bottle of scotch.

The nurse wanted to go home and hug her daughters. She sniffed and tried not to cry.