There were three things in it that were not mine, sitting on top of a fold of wax paper with a piece of my hair in it.

The sonogram was a thermal print, four images in a grid, gone brown at the edges the way those do.

There is a date on it.

There is a name: ABREU, C.

There is a gestational age of nineteen weeks and four days.

The photograph was a four-by-six from a drugstore.

A newborn in a hospital blanket with a knit cap on, red-faced, about nine hours old, with his hands up beside his head the way they come.

On the back, in Carmen’s handwriting, in ballpoint:

Roberto Abreu.

Born June 4.