Our daughter lay under the warm light, her tiny chest rising and falling.

She had a tuft of dark hair, just like Megan’s.

“I will be right back,” I whispered to her.

“I have to go see your mom.”

I walked out of the nursery and down the long corridor to the elevators.

The hospital smelled of bleach and floor wax.

The elevator ride to the third floor felt like it took hours.

When the doors opened, I ran down the hallway to the ICU.

A nurse pointed me toward room 312.

I pushed the curtain aside.

Megan lay in the bed, her face pale against the white pillow.

An IV line was taped to the back of her hand.

Her eyes were half-open, clouded with medication.

When she saw me, her lips parted.

“Jake,” she whispered.

Her voice was barely a scratchy breath.

I rushed to her side and took her hand.

Her skin felt cool and dry.

“I’m here,” I said.

“I am right here.”

“The baby?” she asked.

“She is safe,” I said.

“She is downstairs in the nursery.”

“She is beautiful, Megan.”