The same small mouth.
The same drenched hair.
Her twin.
The second child was curled on her side, knees pulled toward her chest, one small hand pressed against her stomach.
She was breathing, but barely. Every inhale seemed to snag halfway through.
Her belly was swollen beneath the wet fabric of her dress, round and hard in a way that made Miller’s training rise in his throat before his emotions could catch up.
He stood so fast his chair scraped backward across the tile.
The sound made the girl at the door flinch.
Miller stopped moving.
That mattered.
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