Tess Ember stepped out of the prison gates and into the biting wind. She quickly wrapped her arms around the small bundle in her arms, shielding it from the cold. When the gusts finally died down, she carefully pulled back the corner of the baby blanket, revealing a tiny face—soft, rosy, and impossibly sweet. The baby cooed and blew little bubbles. She blinked her misty, round eyes at Tess. "Layla, my sweet girl," Tess whispered, rocking her gently. At six months old, Layla Ember almost never cried or made a fuss. As long as she was in her mother's arms, the world was safe and warm. A bus pulled up in the distance.