The scalpel slipped. Not mine—I wasn’t operating. But when the alarm blared and the lead surgeon cursed, I lunged forward, instinct overriding protocol. My hand slammed into the retractor, slicing deep across the palm. Blood sprayed the drape. They shouted at me to leave, but I couldn’t. That was Julian under the sheet.\n\nSix hours later, I sat in the dim hallway outside ICU, my hand wrapped in gauze soaked through with red. The envelope trembled in my lap—unsealed, misdelivered, meant for records. I opened it. Two names. One result: 'No biological relationship established.'\n\nMy breath stopped. Not Raymond’s. Not mine. Then whose child had I held every night during fevers? Whose laughter had been the last thing I heard before sleep? A nurse approached, whispering that he coded again. I stood up, the paper crumpling in my fist. Do I go to him? Or do I find Raymond and make him explain?