Things moved so fast, it was like I blinked and then Cali was on an operating table. I was advised to sit at her head. Even though she was already sound asleep, I stroked her face, talking softly to her. It was more to distract myself from what the medical team was doing, but I still caught parts of what they said.

“Too much blood… Alert the NICU… So much trauma. How has she carried this baby this long?” I kissed my friend’s forehead, promising her that I would take care of both her and Justice. They were mine to love and protect, and I wouldn’t let either of them down.

Then the room filled with a weak, pitiful cry that brought tears to my eyes. Justice was handed off to the neonatologist who had come running into the OR only a minute before. He hurried across the room with her and immediately began to work on her. Clearing her airways, putting in an IV, giving her oxygen. Cali had been given meds in case of something like this happening so that Justice’s lungs would develop faster, but she was still only twenty-four weeks’ gestation.

“One pound, four ounces,” one of the nurses called out for someone else to chart the baby’s weight. Other things were mentioned as well, but all I was stuck on was the extremely low number that was my niece’s weight.

Before I could even get a good look at her, they were placing her in an incubator and rushing from the operating room to get her to the NICU. I gazed down at Cali. She was so small and fragile, just like her newborn daughter. Would she want me to stay with her or go with Justice?

Muttering a curse, I kissed her forehead and then ran after the neonatologist and nurse. I caught up before the elevator door closed on them. The nurse gave me a small but warm smile and started asking me questions about the baby’s familial history. I knew a little of Cali’s medical history, but it was considerably easier to answer about the paternal side of Justice’s family.

The NICU was a terrifying place to be. All the sounds of machines attached to tiny, defenseless bodies. The sadness mixed with hope that hit you as soon as you walked into the special care unit was like a gut punch. It was almost too much, and I nearly made a run for it. But I wouldn’t let either my friend or my niece down.

Tubes were placed in Justice while I stood back and watched. Tests were done, and the doctor was encouraging, yet grim, as if afraid to hope or give me hope as well.

When she’d been pinched and poked, with tubes and wires coming from everywhere on her teeny tiny body, they finally allowed me to touch her. I stuck my hand through the incubator hole and caressed a fingertip over her palm. Her hand fisted around my digit, her grip so strong it pulled a sob from deep inside me.