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Summary
I’d worked in obstetrics at the county maternal and child health hospital for seven years. My job was to hand newborns over to their families.
That day, shortly before noon, a baby whose discharge had just been processed was brought to my desk. His mother’s information, his footprint card, the number on his ID band—everything checked out.
But I saw a ring of tiny, needlelike indentations around the edge of the band’s clasp. I turned and lifted the emergency cover.
Within three minutes, the maternity floor was locked down. Every newborn handover stopped.
The corridor erupted.
“It’s just a little mark! The baby probably did it himself. Was all this really necessary?”
“Exactly! There are so many other babies waiting to go home!”
I didn’t argue. I kept my eyes on the child in that man’s arms.
I’d stood behind that desk too long. I knew one thing all too well.
Of all the things on a newborn, the ID band was the one thing that could never be wrong.
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