The doctors, meanwhile, seem increasingly concerned.

I look at the nesting doll, pulled apart.

There is a long, steady beeping, as if the world has ended.

Two Months Later

I pull the car to a stop along the sidewalk in front of our house, and the sound of the gear stick dropping into park, the weightless sensation of my hands as they fall to my lap, the bright winter sunlight slanting through the window—all of it feels so much like the end that I lean forward and put my forehead on the top of the steering wheel. I take a deep breath. Another. I wipe my eyes, my nose, put my hands on the wheel as if I’m about to drive away, but I’m not. This is home. It feels good to be here.

It feels good to be here with you.

“Don’t worry,” I say to you. “I have to get your chair out of the trunk. Then I’ll get you out.”

I open the car door, and the air is cold, smells of snow. The sunlight glares off of everything—the windows of the row homes and the windshields of passing cars and the icy puddles that line the gutter. The trunk pops open, and I lift out your wheelchair, a parting gift from Tom, much nicer than the standard-issue chair from the hospital, the one my meager insurance would have paid for. I unfold the chair and wheel it over to your door.

He came to see you once. You should know that. Maybe you do. We didn’t say much and he didn’t stay long, but he was there, and that means something. I know he carries a heavy weight.

I hesitate, wishing you would open the door yourself, but I know you won’t, so I pop it open and put a smile on my face.

“Hey, beautiful,” I whisper, leaning in close and situating your arms just so, as I’ve grown accustomed to doing. I lift you out.

Your eyes are so bright, and one hand is up under your chin, a spot it tends to find naturally, a spot that makes it look like you’re thinking. I know you are thinking. A deep, quiet, guttural sound comes from your throat, a kind of speaking that I somehow feel I understand.

“Welcome home, indeed,” I say, standing up straight.

You are so light, as light as you were at four or five years old, so light I think you might float away from me, and I don’t yet put you down in the chair—I stand there in the bright sun and the cold air and watch the traffic go by. Your dark hair blows in wisps around my face, like tiny promises, and I feel a sob rise in the back of my throat, but I keep it down by staring up at the sun, blinking hard, then turning away.

I nestle you into your chair and pull the soft blue blanket from the car, tuck it in around your thighs, your shoulders. You make a long, quiet moaning sound.