Two in the morning tastes like copper and stale air. Elena leans against the nursery doorframe, her shadow stretched long by the single amber nightlight plugged into the baseboard. Inside the white wooden slats of the cot, the bundle of yellow muslin is perfectly still. There is no rise and fall of a chest. No soft, wet whistle of a newborn’s breath. Elena holds her own breath, counting the seconds until her lungs ache. Only when she blinks and looks toward the window does the rhythmic, mechanical huffing start again. It is a performance of life, timed for her benefit.
She inches closer, the floorboards silent under her wool socks. The air in the room is unnaturally thin. Eleven weeks ago, the hospital gave her a daughter, but the weight in her arms never felt right. Elena reaches out, her fingers brushing the infant’s tiny, curled fist. The skin is a shock—bitterly cold, like a stone pulled from a winter creek. She pulls her hand back, tucking it into the pocket of her oatmeal cardigan. This isn't possible. Mateo says it is just the exhaustion, but Mateo isn't the one standing in the dark.
In the amber gloom, the baby’s neck muscles tighten. The small head begins to turn, moving with a smooth, heavy deliberation toward the corner where Elena stands.
