“Can I put my hand in for a second?” I asked.

“Just for two minutes,” Nurse Elena said from her spot near the chart desk.

“She needs every bit of her energy for breathing right now.”

I unlatched the round plastic porthole on the side of the box and slid my right hand into the warm, humid air inside.

I rested two fingers gently on Rosalie’s tiny wrist, just above the clear tape holding her tiny IV line in place.

Her skin felt impossibly soft, like warm velvet stretched over tiny bones.