Kevin sat on the edge of the cushions beside her, watching her shoulders relax into a deep, easy sleep.

I walked into the quiet newborn room alone and pulled the padded vinyl recliner as close to the incubator port as it would go.

The room was still except for the soft, mechanical rhythm of the respirator tube.

It didn’t sound like a crisis anymore.

It sounded like a clock ticking inside a warm, safe house.

I reached my left arm through the round rubber port on the side of the plastic wall.

The air inside the box was warm and humid against my skin.

Rosalie’s fingers were smaller than my thumb.

They curled automatically around the tip of my index finger, her knuckles no bigger than sweet pea seeds under her translucent skin.

Her chest moved up and down in a slow, steady rhythm that never once hit the warning mark on the wall screen.

I rested my forehead against the cool edge of the frame, and my breath fogged a small, neat circle on the outside panel.

Through the clear plastic wall, right above where my baby daughter lay sleeping, the small, colorful rainbow shone through the side of the incubator.

We were finally safe, and that was all that mattered.