A sharpness in her arm pulled her up, awake. She found she could move her limbs. When she opened her eyes there was a pink face very close to hers. With short black hair and small eyes, the woman was dressed in a white tunic, and she smiled at Lauren as she withdrew, a syringe in her hand.

“Hello, love. Do you think you can sit up?”

Lauren was in a small room, not unlike a room in a hostel, which was freshly painted white. She lay on a single bed against the wall. There was an empty baby’s cot against the other wall. For a second she didn’t understand what was happening, what had happened, but then everything rushed in at once. The woman squeezed Lauren’s hand as she trembled, as the wave of fear crashed, receded, left her beached on the bed, struggling to remember to breathe.

“You’re all right,” said the nurse, whose name badge said Pauline. And it was strangely comforting, hearing that, even though it wasn’t true in the slightest.

“Where am I?” asked Lauren, remembering hope, psychiatric, baby.

“Hospital. Sort of. We’re much nicer than your average hospital though, don’t worry.”

“Psychiatric unit,” said Lauren. They think I’m insane. She looked sideways at the nurse. Does she think that, too? The window was ajar, but had white-painted bars over it. No escape that way.

“That’s right,” said Pauline. “We’re going to get you better.”

Better from what? she thought. The only thing that’s wrong with me is that someone’s got my children. She glanced at the door, which was reinforced in a metal frame. The nurse had a thick leather belt with a chain looping from a pouch. Keys to the doors. She’s not a nurse, she’s a guard.

“What about the babies?” asked Lauren, “Are they here, too?”

“Not yet. They’re on the way. They’ll be here soon—your husband’s going to bring them. In the meantime, I brought you a breast pump.”

Lauren looked down at herself. There were two large wet patches on the front of her vest. She felt the throbbing then. Both breasts were full, and hard, and leaking. There was an urgent need to release the pressure. She said, “My boys. They haven’t fed. They’ll be starving.”

“Don’t worry, they’ll have had a bottle by now.”

Who gave them the bottle? Patrick? He’d never get the mix right. What if he gave it to them when it was too hot? What if he burned their delicate mouths? But then, they weren’t talking about her boys, not really. The ones Patrick had weren’t hers. Wherever hers were—

And her breath caught before she could complete the thought.