Yes, I am shaking, but I am also hoping that deep inside I will find the strength to confront this horror.

The explosion travels from my brain to my lips. “Stop! Stop talking!”

“Lucy, please. This is a professional space,” he says.

“You are a fucking madman,” I yell, as if this observation was a revelation.

He laughs, then turns deadly serious. “No, I am a pioneer. What we are doing will aid, no, cure infants with congenital heart problems. We are isolating those genes that—”

“Don’t talk anymore,” I yell.

Our argument seems to have woken every infant in the nursery. The wailing is almost overwhelming. Sarkar and I stand alone together in the nursery.

His eyes twinkle, but it is a watery, distant, peculiar twinkle.

“Let me explain the procedure. Tell me if you don’t see the value,” Sarkar says, as if we are two colleagues chatting over a cup of coffee.

The babies continue screaming. I glance at the door to see if the women will return.

Where is Troy? Swimming in the river? Where is anyone?

I say, “When I thought the babies were being harvested for childless couples, I thought it was disgusting. The word itself, harvested, is awful. But I thought at least the babies would have homes, probably good homes, probably good parents, advantages. But this. This is kidnapping and murder rolled into one. And the pain. The infants are suffering, being tortured.”

I move closer to Sarkar, who continues to smile in a hateful, condescending manner.

I intend to continue yelling. I don’t know when I’ll stop, when I’ll run out of words that reach beyond anger.

Then I look down into the crib beside me.

A tiny baby, wearing a tiny plastic brace on his tiny shoulders. The baby has lots of beautiful dark hair.

It is, of course, the Morabito baby, the very infant who only a few hours ago Dr. Sarkar helped deliver.

Then I hear a voice. “What the hell is going on in here?”

The door has opened. The two women who’d left a few minutes ago have returned.

I begin to reach into the crib.

“I’ll handle this,” Sarkar shouts at the women. “Get out. Get the hell out.”

The two women scurry back through the door and close it behind them. As soon as I hear the door click, I hear a loud sound, a human grunt.

Suddenly rough hands grab me by both my shoulders. I’m thrown to the ground. My head hits the floor. Hard.

I am lying on my back. Sarkar is on top of me. He is like a schoolboy who has won a schoolyard fight. His knees have pinned down my shoulders. A punch to my right cheek, followed by a harder punch to my other cheek. The teeth in the back of my mouth crackle.

I taste the blood filling my mouth.