CHAPTER 3
Mount Sinai's pediatric wing smelled of industrial disinfectant and impending tragedy. I bolted through the double glass doors, completely ignoring the administrative desk clerks who shouted after me as I navigated the maze of beige corridors toward Room 247.
Sienna was sitting on a plastic chair outside the room, her forehead resting against her knees, her blonde hair messy and unwashed. She wore a faded college sweatshirt that was far too large for her thin frame, her shoulders shaking with silent, rhythmic sobs.
"Sienna," I breathed, dropping my handmade Italian leather briefcase right onto the dirty tile floor.
She lifted her head slowly, her swollen, tear-stained eyes locking onto mine with a devastating mix of profound relief and deep-seated betrayal. The golden girl I had abandoned in a dark Brooklyn apartment now looked completely shattered by the exhausting reality of single motherhood.
"You actually came," she said quietly, her voice hoarse from hours of weeping. "I thought... I thought your lawyers would call instead."
I fell to my knees in front of her, uncaring that my five-thousand-dollar trousers were soaking up the damp filth of a public hospital hallway. I reached out, my trembling hands hesitating before gently cupping her frozen cheeks.
"I am so sorry, Sienna," I choked out, tears finally breaking free and spilling down my face. "I am so deeply, unforgivably sorry."
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Before she could answer, the door to Room 247 swung open, revealing a tired-looking pediatric chief whose grave expression immediately froze the blood in my veins.
"Mr. Van Doran?" the doctor asked, checking the digital clipboard in his hands. "Your son’s oxygen levels are continuing to drop rapidly, and we need your signature to initiate an emergency intubation procedure immediately."
