The nurse took the baby from Gavin and said to me, “Corabelle, it’s time.”

Gavin moved out of the way, and I took my place back in the rocker. I accepted Finn, letting his little bottom rest in my lap. The nurse slipped a pillow under him to steady us and bent over him. “First I’ll just remove the adhesive.”

She used a bit of damp cotton that smelled sharply of chemicals to loosen the sticky tape. Finn’s mouth was red and misshapen beneath it. She pressed a wet cloth to it, surrounding the tube.

I couldn’t breathe. The only lifeline for Finn was loose and ready to come out. I wanted to look around the room, to remember everything, but I couldn’t tear my gaze from his face. My shoulder ached but I ignored it, keeping him still, fearful of moving and removing the tube by accident.

The nurse took the cloth away, and his mouth was soft again, pink rather than red. She looked up at Angilee, who nodded. “I’m going to take it out now,” the nurse said and pulled the tube away.

Angilee whisked away the hosing, and I looked down at Finn for the first time without anything blocking my view. My mother whimpered beside me, and Gavin squeezed my shoulder. For the longest time, Finn didn’t move at all, then his belly moved out violently, and he sucked in a breath.

The nurse placed the disc of a stethoscope on his chest in several places. “Heart tones are still there.” She glanced up at Angilee. “Let’s get her a wheelchair.”

“Where is she going?” Gavin asked.

“We have a private room for you,” the nurse said.

I couldn’t stop looking at Finn. I touched his nose and lips and ears and chin. I pushed the blanket aside to run my fingers down his little chest and belly, places that had always been a mass of wire and adhesive.

“Let’s move you into this.” Angilee guided me from the rocker to the wheelchair. “You all can come.”

Dad clicked images as we moved through the ward. I didn’t take my eyes off Finn. His belly still moved a little, not as violently as before, and this reassured me. I imagined that somehow they were wrong, completely wrong, and that he’d keep breathing, start growing, and soon we’d be in our car and speeding home to put him in his crib.

Angilee pushed me out of the NICU and down a short hall. The other nurse opened the door, revealing a room with a normal bed like you’d find at home, covered in a soft blue bedspread. A normal sofa rested against the far wall, and a table held plates beneath silver covers, like at a hotel.

Angilee pushed the wheelchair over to the bed. “You can sit wherever you like,” she said.

I stood and turned to the bed, then realized I couldn’t easily get on it while holding the baby. “Gavin, take him for a second.” I passed him over, thinking this might have been the most natural thing in the world, handing the baby to his father, if it had been any other time.

I crawled across the bed to sit against the headboard. “Okay, I’m ready for him back.”

Gavin returned him to my arms and climbed on the bed next to me.

Angilee lifted a red remote from a side table. “Call us if you need us,” she said. “We’ll check in every fifteen minutes or so.”

My parents settled on the sofa. “I guess it’s just a matter of time now,” my dad said.

I laid my hand on Finn’s belly, feeling that motion, noticing that the space between the breaths had already grown longer. Gavin put his hand on top of mine, and for a moment, we could have been any new parents, looking down at our son, marveling at how he was made, how he breathed, how sweetly he slept.

I wished that he would open his eyes, just once. But he hadn’t, and wouldn’t.

His belly gurgled and I had to smile, but when the brief happier feeling passed, grief overwhelmed me so fast that I couldn’t hold the tears back. My body had found more, an ocean of them, and I leaned back so they wouldn’t fall on Finn’s face.

His belly stopped moving, and I panicked, thinking it was already done. I wanted to call the nurses, tell them to resuscitate him. My head clanged with alarm bells, warnings to help him, to do something. Gavin squeezed my arm and said, “Take it easy,” and I realized I was breathing very fast, as if I could somehow make the baby accept my oxygen.

Then his belly rose again. I didn’t know how much I could take. This was impossible. How was anyone supposed to make it through this?

“Let’s give the kids a moment,” my dad said. As much as I might want my own mother there, I felt relieved that he would let us be alone, to have just a little time to have Finn all to ourselves.

Mom started to protest, but Dad took her hands and lifted her to standing. She came over to us and kissed Finn’s head. “I love you, baby boy,” she said before covering her face with her handkerchief again.

When they were gone, I laid my head on Gavin’s shoulder. “Is there something we should say to him?” I asked. “Maybe something easy?”

“Anything you want.”

“We love you, Finn. We wish you could stay with us.” I picked up his hand and extended the fingers topped by tiny fragile fingernails. “Daddy would have taught you how to fix a carburetor.”

“Except that cars have fuel injectors now,” Gavin said. “Mommy wasn’t good at cars.”

I tried to laugh, but it caught in my throat. “Well, by the time you were grown, it might have been hover cars.”

“You still would have to have been home by midnight,” he said, then kissed my ear. “We know all the trouble you can get into after midnight.”

I pulled him higher, closer to my shoulder, so I could lay my cheek on his head.

The nurse came in, silently. “Just a quick check.”

I couldn’t believe it had already been fifteen minutes.

I turned Finn a little, and she laid the stethoscope on his chest.

“It’s a long time between breaths now,” I said.

She nodded. “He still has heart tones.”

“How much time?” I asked.

“Every baby is different,” she said. “But probably before the next time I check.”

“Will we know? Will something happen?” Gavin asked.

“Probably not. It’s a lot like he’s asleep.” She patted me on the shoulder. “Just let us know if you need us.”

When she left, I curled into Gavin. He put his arms around us so that we wrapped Finn up between us. I held my breath as long as I could, waiting for Finn’s belly to rise, but I couldn’t make it. I took in another long breath and waited again. Still nothing.

My chest started heaving and Gavin held me tighter. We waited for the next breath, but it didn’t come. I wondered what death really was, when you stopped breathing, or the silence of the heart? I had thought it would be so definitive, and that I would know.

“His face has changed,” Gavin said.

I looked at him, the tiny nose, the gentle mouth still pink around the edges from the tape. And I saw what Gavin meant. His jaw was loose now, his mouth open.

I yanked him tight against my shoulder, tighter than you should hold a baby. I would not let him go, they could not take him from me. Deep inside my body a wail began, a low sound, completely outside my control. He was gone. He was gone. My baby Finn was really gone.

Gavin clutched at me, and we supported each other on the bed, rocking back and forth, the three of us. I don’t know how long we did that, but eventually a nurse came back in and tiptoed back out without disturbing us.

When I couldn’t sit up any longer, my own body giving out, I slid down on the bed, curling Finn’s body into my chest. Gavin lay down with me, and we stayed that way until a doctor came in, one we didn’t know, and checked Finn’s heart. “He’s gone,” he said, but by then, I already knew, had already ached and cried, and I couldn’t do anymore. He glanced at the clock. “Time of death, 9:03.”

He laid a hand on the baby. “You can stay here with him as long as you want, overnight if you choose. Nurses will check on you. You will not be rushed.”