A baby born at twenty-four weeks may weigh just over a pound. The boat is at the dock. David has not come in on it. Thanh says, I should go this time. No, Harper says. You stay. I’ll go. You should stay. Have some lunch. Take a nap. Really, Thanh should go, but Harper goes instead. He doesn’t wear the dress. Before you are allowed to enter the NICU you must wash your hands and forearms up to the elbows for no less than two minutes each time. There is a clock and you watch the minute hand. This is to keep the babies safe from infection. Fleur suggests various games. Frisbee, Capture the Flag, Marco Polo in the water. The caterers play all of these games as if they are not playing games at all. Your wedding ring will fit around the wrist of a twenty-four-week baby. All of the wedding dresses have been bundled up in a pile on the beach with some driftwood. There will be a bonfire tonight. Lunch has been delivered on the boat. Thanh doesn’t want any lunch. In a male baby born at twenty-four weeks, the scrotum and the glans of the penis have not yet developed. The skin cannot hold heat or moisture in. They have no fat. No reserves. They are stuck with needles, tubes, wires, monitors. Astronauts in the smallest diapers you have ever seen. Their ears don’t resemble ears yet. They are placed in nests of artificial lambswool. Pink like cotton candy. Thanh doesn’t want to play Capture the Flag. Fleur has made pitchers and pitchers of Bad Claw Island Ice Tea, and Thanh downs drink after drink after drink. He sits on the sand and drinks. Fleur sits with him for a while, and they talk about things that don’t matter to either one of them. Fleur drinks, but not as much as Thanh. She must wonder. Does she wonder why he is drinking like this? She doesn’t ask. David’s mother sits down beside them. She says, I always wanted to write a book about this place. A book for children. It was going to be about the Bad Claws, before people ever lived here. But I couldn’t figure out what the lesson would be. Children’s books should have a lesson, don’t you think? You should always learn something when you read a story. That’s important. Premature baby girls have better outcomes than premature baby boys. Caucasian boys fare worst of all. Nurses have a name for this: Wimpy White Boys. Fleur says, I’m getting married tomorrow. If David doesn’t show up, I’ll marry the Bad Claw. The one in your room. Put that ring right around that poisonous little dewclaw. That would be funny, wouldn’t it? Just watch. I’ll do it. Eventually Thanh is sitting by himself, and then, later, someone is standing over him. Harper. Hey there, Harper is saying. Hey there, buddy. Thanh? What? Thanh says. What. He thinks this is what he says. He is asking a question, but he isn’t sure what he is asking. Harper is telling him something about someone whose name is William. The eyes of a twenty-four-week baby will still be fused shut. He can be given around five grams of breast milk a day through a gastro-nasal tube. Every diaper must be weighed. Urine output is monitored. Heart rate. Weight gain. Growth of the blood vessels in the retina. Lungs will not fully develop until the thirty-seventh week. Oxygen saturation of the blood is monitored. Everything noted in a binder book. Parents may look at the book. May ask questions. A high-speed oscillating ventilator may be required. Sometimes a tracheotomy is required. Supplemental oxygen. Blood transfusions. There is a price for all of these interventions. There is a cost. Cerebral palsy is a risk. Brain bleeds. Scarring of the lungs. Loss of vision. Necrotizing enterocolitis. The business of staying alive is hard work. Nurses say, He’s so feisty. He’s a fighter. That’s a good thing. Harper goes away. Eventually he comes back with Fleur. The bonfire has been lit. It’s dark. You have to eat something, Fleur says. Thanh? Here. She opens a packet of crackers. Thanh obediently eats cracker after cracker. Sips water. The crackers are sweetish. Dry. Nurses don’t necessarily call the premature babies by their names. Why not? Maybe it makes it easier. They call the babies Peanut. Muffin. What an adorable muffin. What a little peanut. Parents may visit the NICU at any hour, day or night. Some parents find it hard to visit. Their presence is not essential. There is no vital task. Their child may die. There is no privacy. Every morning and every evening the doctors make rounds. Parents may listen in. They may ask questions. Parents may ask questions. There will not always be answers. There are motivational posters. Social workers. Financial counselors. A baby born at twenty-four weeks is expensive! Who knew a baby could cost so much? Fleur and Harper help Thanh up the stairs and into bed. Harper is saying, In the morning. We have standby seats. Turn him on his side. In case he pukes. There. The first twenty-four hours are the most critical.