The mechanical pump on the lower shelf groaned, pushing a tiny pulse of air through the blue tubing.

“Thirty people expecting lemon cake,” Patricia said, her voice dry and thin.

“Your mother sitting on her hands in a hospital gown while your aunt cries in an empty dining room.”

She set the gift bag on the floor next to a tall pole holding three IV bags.

The glossy paper crinkled loudly against the linoleum.

Patricia reached through the flexible rubber porthole on the side of the incubator.

Her fingers were long, with light brown freckles around the knuckles.