“You’re calling the police on your own mother over a simple misunderstanding?”

I looked past her shoulder at the clear plastic box in the center of the bay.

Two nurses were standing over Rosalie, watching the numbers on the monitor turn from yellow back to green.

My baby’s chest was rising and falling in the steady mechanical rhythm of the machine.

“Call the police,” I said.

“Claire, think about what you’re doing,” my mother said, stepping closer to the guard’s arm.

“If you do this, you’ll ruin Melissa’s weekend completely.