“Ms. Barrantes, talk to us. What’s happening?” the specialist says. “Ms. Barrantes!”

But Ms. Barrantes slumps forward, eyes glazed, sweat racing down every part of her face like rain on an umbrella.

The woman mashes a button hidden behind the desk, and a buzz fills the room. Two black-clad men rush in like there’s a suspect to subdue, a woman in a lab coat trailing.

One of the men points to me, then at the wall. “We need you over there now.”

The lab coat woman seems unfazed. “Wanda,” she says to the specialist. “Please, escort Jamal next door.”

But I move toward Ms. Barrantes. “I’m not leaving her.”

Wanda reaches for my arm, but I pull away. “I’m staying.”

The lab coat woman nods. “It’s okay, Wanda.”

One man supports Ms. Barrantes’s head while the other snaps the head off a Q-tip-sized stick, fans it beneath her nose.

The lab coat woman removes a tablet from her pocket, slides her finger across the screen, points an edge toward Ms. B, prompting two rapid beeps.

She tilts the screen my direction: a series of colliding green and blue clusters, like a weather map.

I have no idea what I’m looking at.

And finally, the woman, realizing this, smiles. “She’s fine. Understandably a little anxious.”

On cue, Ms. B’s eyes flit open.

“I fainted,” Ms. B says, rubbing her temples.

“You did.” The lab coat woman smiles, extends her hand. “I’m Dr. Maya Iverson, Ms. Barrantes. And while I certainly wish you didn’t need our services, I’m happy you’ve accepted our offer.”

Ms. B kneads her neck. “I haven’t accepted anything. I’m not certain I even understand the offer.”

Dr. Iverson returns the tablet to her coat pocket. “We want to reunite you with your son, Ms. Barrantes.”

Ms. B laughs. “Reunite us. Just like that, huh? Like we got separated at the mall.”

Dr. Iverson smiles. “You’re a nurse. You know doctors love to gloss over the details. But yes, we’re supremely confident.”

“I’ve heard rumors for years. We all have . . . but you never think something like this is truly possible . . .” Ms. B’s face like she’s just left a dream.

“I appreciate your position. Trust me, I understand how it works, yet when I consider what we’ve done, what we’re doing, I can barely fathom any of it.”

“As a parent . . .” Ms. B grips her mouth, her hand shaking. “As a parent, you think about what’ll happen to them when you die, but . . . not this. You’re not supposed to outlive your child.”

And what do you say to that?

Nothing.

Silence hitting the room hard enough to rattle walls.

So quiet you hear halogen crackling in the overhead lights.