Elena Rostova dug her sneakers into the concrete threshold.
Her hands burned against the cold chrome tubing of Bed 412. Every muscle across her shoulders screamed under the strain.
Beneath the head-rail, the four-by-eight-foot concrete platform hung at a twenty-two degree slope.
“Julian!” Elena shouted down the hallway. “The third bolt is peeling!”
“I have fifteen seconds left!”
“Hold the rail, Elena!” Clara’s portable monitor beeped with an urgent rhythm.
Elena looked down at Clara’s face. The girl’s skin was cool and pale, untouched by the panic shaking the room.
“Stay with me, Clara,” Elena whispered, her fingers locking tighter around the bar. “Your brother is coming. We are not letting this bed drop.”
