He was staring out the window at the snow.

“She fell asleep about twenty minutes ago,” Ethan said quietly.

“She looks just like Mary when she’s sleeping,” he added.

“She does,” I said, sitting down opposite him.

“Mary is stable,” I told him.

“Her hand felt cool.”

Ethan looked down at his daughter’s face, his fingers gently moving a strand of hair from her eyes.

“I’m going to buy a house,” Ethan said.

“Somewhere outside the city.”

“Somewhere with a yard where Lauren can play.”

“And Mary?” I asked.

“If she wants to come with us,” Ethan said.

“If she can ever trust me again.”

“It will take time, Ethan,” I said.

“I have nothing but time now,” he said.

He looked at the empty space on his wrist where his expensive gold watch usually sat.

He had left that in his desk drawer too.

The hospital lobby elevator chimed in the distance.

The hallway was quiet, the lights dimmed for the night.

A nurse walked past the doorway, carrying a tray of small plastic cups.

Ethan shifted Lauren slightly, her small breath warm against his neck.