She reached into her little cardboard box of crayons, took out a fresh red one, and pressed the tip carefully against the bottom edge of her drawing.

“Mommy, should I draw flowers under the rainbow or grass?” Brooklyn asked without looking up.

“Grass sounds nice, sweetie,” I said, leaning sideways on the vinyl couch to reach the plastic sharpener.

A sharp, scalding heat flared across my lower belly, burning through the layers of heavy gauze straight into my skin.

My fingers locked onto the wooden edge of the table, and my breath caught in my chest.

The floor nurse had warned me at lunch that the numbing block from the surgery had completely worn off, but I had ignored the stiffness in my lower back until now.