"Here she is," the nurse said.
Encased in the hygienic shell lay his baby girl. She was tiny,
and he could see thin, pulsing veins through her skin and bruises
all over her body. Her head! It looked so huge and unnatural, he
thought with alarm. He leaned closer, panicked.
The nurse saw his aghast expression and touched a gloved hand to
his arm. "Oh, don't worry. That's normal," she said. "All the
rest of her will catch up in the next couple of weeks. The head
develops a little faster at this stage. It's perfectly ordinary."
"What is all this?" he asked, studying the clear tubes entering
her nostrils and poking into her arms and belly, the wires and
probes taped to her impossible little body.
"Respiratory, protein, waste, heart," the nurse said, indicating
the various points, all of which appeared crudely connected and
held in place by swatches of white tape.
"How is she?"
"We're keeping a close eye on her. It was a difficult birth, but
she seems like a fighter."
"Hang in there, little girl," Peter whispered.
"I'm afraid we have to leave now. We need to be extremely careful
about exposure."
Peter and nodded, and through his paper face mask he kissed his
gloved fingers and touched the plastic shell. He straightened and
followed the nurse out of the room. Pulling himself free of the
green scrub outfit, he glanced one last time back through the
glass window into the neonatal room.
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