He arrived at a gray building in an older part of town. What had been the children’s hospital now looked partly shuttered, but a new wing nearby bore the sign “County Children’s Hospital.”
At the reception desk a young admin in a white coat frowned at the photo.
— These records are sealed, — she said. — We need a formal request or a court order for access.
Mike bristled. His name usually opened doors, but not here. He was turning to leave when a retired nurse standing nearby looked closely at the photo and did a double take.
— Wait, — Mike said, approaching her. — You used to work here?
She nodded.
He handed her the picture.
— Do you know this child?
The nurse studied it and then sighed.
— I remember. A newborn was left at the hospital gate one morning. No one knew who the mother was. The baby was eventually processed and put up for adoption.
Mike felt the floor drop out.
— But Linda told me she gave birth here.
The nurse shook her head.
— If Linda had given birth, I would have remembered. I do remember another woman — young, wearing a headscarf, with a heavy accent. She came back a week later, crying, asking about the baby. She said she was the child’s aunt.
— The aunt?
