Room 314 was quiet, lit only by the low amber light on the IV pump and the gray daylight slanting through the blinds.

Lily looked tiny in the middle of the adult hospital bed, her knees drawn up toward her stomach under the thin waffle blanket.

Her arms gripped the gray stuffed rabbit, her knuckles pressed flat against the seam where the nylon stitching had come loose at its neck.

I pulled the vinyl visitor’s chair closer to the mattress, careful not to let the metal legs scrape the floor.

On the rolling bedside table sat her lunch tray: a carton of milk, a small cup of diced peaches, and a plastic spoon still wrapped in cellophane.