A doctor reads skin color, pressure, pulse, breathing, dilation. A father reads smaller things. The stillness of his child’s hand. The way a nurse keeps her voice too soft.

The way trained people go quiet because grief has entered the room and everyone is trying not to disturb it.

Alan opened the curtain.

My daughter was lying face down on the hospital bed. Her blond hair was damp and tangled against her cheek. A blue hospital wristband circled her wrist.

The monitor beside her blinked a steady green line, too ordinary for what I was seeing.

The back of her gown had been cut away.