Discharge papers in hand, holding my daughter against me in the bright ordinary daylight of the hospital lobby, I felt the specific exhaustion that comes after a fear has finally released its grip, a bone-deep trembling tiredness that is almost worse than the fear itself because now there is room to feel it.

But underneath the exhaustion was something steadier, something that had not been there twelve hours before: a certainty.

I knew, now, exactly what I had to do, and exactly why, and there was no more agonizing left to do about it.

The night had burned all the ambiguity out of me.

Whatever came next would be hard, but it would not be confusing, and after years of confusion, the hardness felt almost like a relief.

Mason pulled his car up to the curb outside the hospital exactly when he said he would.