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The security guard’s voice trembled when he phoned me.
“Ma’am, you need to come to level three right now.”
I was seven months pregnant, still clutching the ultrasound image of my daughter’s face as I stepped out of the maternity clinic. Just ten minutes earlier, I had been watching her tiny profile on the monitor, hearing the doctor reassure me that everything looked perfect. By the time I reached the parking garage, that sense of perfection had vanished.
My silver SUV looked like it had been torn apart by a mob.