There was a small round portal in the side of the incubator.

I reached my hand through it — this hand that had poured foundations and signed for skylines — and with one finger I touched his: translucent, impossibly small.

And his whole hand closed around my fingertip and held on, with a grip far stronger than anything that size had a right to have.

My eyes flooded.

“What’s his name?” I got out.

“She hasn’t named him yet,” the doctor said.