She wouldn’t suck. She wouldn’t cuddle. Her eyes rolled toward me, then away again. I hugged her to my chest and ran from the doctor’s office to the X-ray lab. There they jammed her into a plastic tube with her arms pinned above her head, still in her white T-shirt, crying. “That’s good,” the technician said. “It expands the lungs.” When they handed her back, I wouldn’t lay her down again. I slept that night in a chair, holding her up so the mucus would drain. In sudden, sharp focus, I cherished it all: the sweaty spikes of her damp hair, the rattling vibrations of every breath. I hold no moments more precious than these, the nearly unbearable, a pain so pure, it was almost like happiness.