They were small, determined, and astonishingly loud for people who had only just met the world.

I named them Hazel, June, and Rose.

Hazel had a solemn expression and the habit of opening one eye before the other.

June protested every change in routine.

Rose slept with her tiny fist resting beside her cheek, as though dreaming about something that required concentration.

The nurses showed me how to feed them, how to keep a careful log, and how to watch for signs that required medical attention.

Miriam stayed close, pretending she only wanted an excuse to read novels in a rocking chair.