We walk down the hallway, past the pay-phones and the elevators, past the nurse's desk, and into the Unit to stand over our children in their nests of life support, and then back to the lounge. Just walking, back and forth, heads down, knowing we can do nothing, but doing it with a profound intensity. We do this day after day, week after week, wanting to be home. I think about the virus, Lillie's heedless virus, simply wandering into her to do its hot work. The other children here were found by viruses too, or flames, or holes in frozen lakes, or tumors, or open windows on second-stories.
Families come and go.
Some of the parents go home alone. Lillie's having trouble sleeping tonight, like most nights. We've been dozing together off and on. She just coughed hard, a raspy wet cough, loud but voiceless, and the effort set off one of her alarms, a violent beeping like a smoke detector. I bent over to reset it and when I leaned back Lillie had her arm stretched through the crib bars toward me.