The NICU: neonatal intensive care unit. Bloody hell, he didn’t want to have to think about those babies today. The latest was a premmie with an intracerebral haemorrhage. Concerns about hydrocephalus. They should have ordered an ultrasound by now. Had they done that? Marty used to enjoy the challenges in there, trying to win the fight for those tiny little bodies. Not now. Hope and heartbreak. Heartbreak and hope. For some babies who survived with medical interventions, it would become a never-ending circle. Ongoing illnesses and operations, severe developmental delays or cognitive disabilities. Sometimes they saved a premature baby at birth only to have him die six months later with pneumonia.

A few weeks ago, on a Thursday, he’d been ready to leave for the day when he was paged for the NICU. That evening had been a good news story: the baby’s oxygen levels had improved and she had rallied.

Marty had driven home, feeling that this move to Canberra had been the right decision for them. He’d pulled into their driveway and sat in the car for a moment, admiring their brand-new home. All concrete and aluminium and timber. Clean, stylish lines. The blue-grey of the walls matched the blue of the gum trees in the paddocks behind the house. Solar panels on the roof, a rainwater tank out the back and high windows angled to let in the light but not the heat of the sun. Marty had never loved a house before. This one was something different. Built on the ashes of the Canberra bushfire.

Opening the steel-blue door, he had called out: ‘Where’s my Bella Ballerina?’

Bella raced down the hallway and launched herself at him. Marty swung her upwards, feeling her sticky hands on his cheeks as she kissed his nose.

‘What did you do today, honey?’

‘I filled buckets. More than Morgan. She took the digger. I had the spade. I was fast.’

‘Do you mean in the sandpit? Was it playgroup this morning?’

‘Thomas hit me. He wanted the lello spade.’

‘The yellow spade,’ Marty corrected her and hugged his daughter tighter. ‘Where did he hit you?’

‘In the sandpit.’

‘Yes, in the sandpit. And on which part of your body?’

‘My tummy. It’s sore.’ Bella took her hands from his shoulders and rubbed her stomach in big circles. ‘He hit Morgan in the face.’

‘Ouch, how was Morgan?’

‘Her nose had red blood.’

‘Poor Morgan, poor Bella.’ Marty kissed her forehead and deposited her on the floor. ‘Let me have a look at your tummy.’