That evening Rosalie was wheeled into the unit to sit beside the incubator with me.

She took in my rolled sleeves and the jacket and tie I had abandoned hours before.

“You’re still here,” she said, with genuine surprise.

“Where else on earth would I be?” I said.

“Six months ago,” she said honestly, “you’d have been back in Atlanta, finishing the deal.” She was right, and I did not argue, because pretending otherwise would have insulted us both.

Instead I offered the name that had been echoing in my head all afternoon.