I lay back against the flat pillow, listening to the air conditioning vent rattle overhead.

When the floor nurse came in, she checked the monitor twice and pressed her fingers against the pulse in my wrist.

“You’re not leaving this bed until that top number stays under one hundred forty,” she said.

“My baby is on the third floor,” I said.

“Your baby is in good hands,” the nurse said, adjusting the IV line in the back of my hand.

“And you’re staying right here until your body stops fighting the surgery.”

By three o’clock, the nurse finally let Kevin wheel my chair down the long corridor to the neonatal intensive care unit.

The air in the unit smelled of harsh sanitizer and burnt coffee.

A steady mechanical hiss filled the room every few seconds as the ventilator pushed air into my newborn daughter’s lungs.

Nurse Elena stood beside the clear plastic box, tapping her pen against her clipboard.

She was forty-five, in dark scrub pants and a blue coat.

She didn’t smile when we stopped at the edge of the bed.

“She weighs three pounds and eleven ounces,” Nurse Elena said, her voice soft but absolute.

“Her name is Rosalie?”