Corabelle shook her head. “I just want to know about Finn.”

The nurse hustled out, but she didn’t return that hour, or the next. I finally wrestled with the hospital bed and lowered the side so I could get close to Corabelle.

“It’s almost midnight,” Corabelle’s dad said. “I don’t think we’ll get any news tonight.”

“I don’t want to go home,” her mother said.

“We’ll see where we are in the morning,” he said firmly. “We’ll be back first thing.”

Her mother leaned in to kiss Corabelle on the forehead. “Stay strong, honey.” She squeezed my arm. “Take care of her.”

When they were gone, Corabelle started sobbing again. “Why won’t they tell us anything? This is horrible.”

“I’m going back to the NICU. They have to know something.”

She clutched my hand, and I wished I’d gone before her parents left. I’d be leaving her alone. “Kiss him for me,” she said.

I nodded, but based on how they acted earlier, I wasn’t going to get within touching distance.

When I got back to the NICU entrance, the stern woman had been replaced by a friendlier-looking nurse. “I’m Finn Rotheford’s father,” I said.

“Do you have your things together?”

I washed over with fear. “What do you mean?”

She glanced the clock. “They should be transferring you to El Paso as soon as the ambulance is prepped.”

“No one told us.” My head started pounding, my heart trying to explode. “Why are we going there?”

“They have an NICU better able to handle your baby’s needs.”

I slammed my hands against the window. “Nobody has told us what those needs are!”

“Let me see who is available.” She picked up a phone and spoke into it so quietly I couldn’t hear. “I’ve paged the doctor to your room. You can meet him there.”

I raced down the hallway, but when I arrived, several people were already there.

“Gavin?” Corabelle cried. “They’re moving Finn!”

“I know!”

A tall man with buzzed gray hair held out his hand. “I’m Dr. Fletcher. I’m coordinating the transfer of your baby to a unit in El Paso.”

“Why are we going there?”

The doctor perched on a stool at Corabelle’s feet. “Your baby has a very serious condition called hypoplastic left heart syndrome. We first suspected a heart problem when we listened to his heart tones right after birth. The attending obstetrician was on top of it, which was why Finn was taken so quickly to be checked. The first few hours are very important.”

I moved to Corabelle’s side to hold her hand, for her or for me, I wasn’t sure. She wasn’t crying right then, just listening, her brown eyes wide and full of fear.

“We did some imaging of Finn’s heart and confirmed the defect. Unfortunately, this hospital is not prepared to manage the care of a baby in this condition. He’ll need a heart specialist and a surgeon, possibly within the next 24 hours.”

Corabelle sobbed then, and I gripped her hand hard. “What will happen?” I asked.

“He’ll be assessed on his ability to withstand the surgery. Then you will be given choices about going forward with the surgery or choosing palliative care.”

“You mean watching him die?” Corabelle’s voice was strained and choked.

“The team there is very good. They will do everything they can.”

“Why haven’t we already gone?” Corabelle asked. “Finn’s been here for hours.”

The doctor glanced at one of the nurses. “We had to stabilize him to survive the trip. He’s in very critical condition.”

“Oh my God,” Corabelle said. “He could die any minute?”

“His heart is not very strong. The left side is barely functional. We’ve left the ductus arteriosus open, a vessel that connects the two parts of the heart, one that normally closes at birth. This way we can keep Finn’s heart working until surgery. But it will have to happen within a few days.”

“Or what?” I asked.

“He’ll eventually go into cardiac arrest. But that is the same risk if we do close it. This gives us time to work on his heart.”

My blood was pounding in my ears so hard that I wasn’t sure I could hear anymore. I looked at Corabelle, ghostly white against her pillow. She took several rapid breaths, then sat up and threw her legs over the side of the bed. “I have to get dressed.”

“You can’t leave yet. You just had the baby!” I said.

“I’m not staying here while they take Finn away!” She limped to the sofa, where her duffel bag waited, and started jerking clothes out of it.

“Can she do that? Can she go?”

The doctor looked at the nurses. “When will she get discharged?”

“Tomorrow at the earliest. Possibly another day,” one said. “She’s only six hours postpartum.”

Corabelle whirled around. “I’m walking out of here whether you sign a paper or not.”

The doctor nodded. “Did everything go normally for her?”

The nurse picked up her chart. “I didn’t attend, but everything here looks clear.”

“Let her go. Inform her OB.”

Tears streaked Corabelle’s face. “Thank you.” She turned to me. “Help me dress.”

Another nurse came in. “They are ready to transfer.”

“Never mind,” Corabelle said. She stuck her feet in her shoes. “I’m going like this.” She shoved her bag at me. “I’m riding with the baby.”

“Get her a wheelchair,” the doctor said. “Take her down.”

Once we got to the hospital, Corabelle started checking out books and making sure she understood every term. We were given a room at the Ronald McDonald House, and she printed out internet searches, peppering the doctors with questions whenever anyone made rounds.

Finn was enclosed in a clear incubator. We could snake our hands through round openings on the side and touch his hands and head wherever the wires weren’t taped. Corabelle kept a vigil, standing by him as much as she could, or sitting in one of the rockers that seemed to be a staple in NICU wards.

The room was never silent, but whirred and buzzed with alarms and machines. On the first day, I thought I would go mad with it, but eventually I learned to cope. We had nothing to do but this, no school, no job, just be there for Finn, to sit in the ward, watch them run the tests or wheel him out when he had to be assessed on some other floor.

The journey had been hard on him, and at the new hospital we saw the nurses come over to him when he had something called apnea, where he stopped breathing. Apparently during one of the nights we weren’t there, they had to do CPR to restart his heart. We were waiting for some definitive word, and we talked to so many doctors, from normal baby doctors to heart specialists. It seemed every time they made a decision, something would happen to Finn, and they would want to assess him again.

Corabelle’s mom tried to convince us to go home for prom, to try to enjoy a night out. Corabelle had a fit. “How can you even suggest that, when Finn is so ill?”

The last time we saw the neonatologist, on the morning of prom, he said the surgeon would be meeting with us. “Why hasn’t he already had surgery?” Corabelle demanded, shoving a printout in the man’s face. “Five days is the recommended maximum to keep the ductus open. It’s been seven!”

I could see what Corabelle couldn’t. The man’s face was a mask of professionalism, of detachment. They’d given up on Finn, but they hadn’t told us yet. I couldn’t bring myself to say this to Corabelle, even though I knew.

Her phone had been blowing up with messages all day. Everyone seemed to think that since Finn was okay all week, he’d be okay for the night. Several of Corabelle’s friends sided with her mother, telling her to get back home and attend her prom.

“They don’t get it.” Corabelle threw her phone in her purse. “We can’t go dance and laugh and have our pictures made. This is our whole life.” She pressed on her swollen breasts. “Besides, I can’t exactly pump milk in the middle of the crowning of the king and queen.”

I sat on the floor of the NICU, leaning back against the seat of her rocking chair, her knees on either side of my shoulders. My arms wound around her legs. I didn’t know how anybody did this long-term, just waited. Corabelle had talked to some of the other mothers, but their babies were all doing well, growing and getting better. She couldn’t bear it any more than seeing the curtains get wrapped around a family and a bed, rolled along a track to hide their tragedy from the other occupants of the ward. Two babies had died in the week we’d been there, and both times Corabelle had sobbed half the night.