“Yes,” I said, leaning over the padded armrest of the wheelchair.

“Rosalie Bennett.”

Inside the box, the tiny chest rose and fell in time with the machine’s steady rhythm.

Her skin was so thin you could see the blue veins across her shoulders, and a clear tube was taped across her tiny mouth.

“Her lungs are very underdeveloped,” Nurse Elena said, checking a dial on the side of the oxygen monitor.

“We have her on sixty percent support.”