Chapter 8: Night Watch

On the eighth night, the nurse finally let me feed my daughter myself.

She was off oxygen, and the tube was gone from her nose.

A bottle of fortified formula sat in my hand, and the label said $34 on the sticker the pharmacy had left.

I was sitting in the parent room, in a rocking chair that squeaked.

Colter sat on the couch with a thermos between his boots.

He had taken a motel room in town and come every night since the lobby.

He never asked to stay, and I never asked him to leave.

Since security walked Sheldon out of the lobby, he had come back only once, on the third day.

He stood at the glass for a few minutes, left a stuffed bear with the price tag still on, and never asked to hold her.

"Tilt her a little more," the nurse said from the door. "Head higher than her stomach."

I tried.

My hand shook, and the bottle slipped.

Colter was there before the formula spilled.

He put his hand under my wrist and lifted it back into place.

"There," he said.

The nurse nodded and went back to her desk.

My daughter drank.

She made a small, serious sound with each swallow.

Colter's hand stayed where it was.

His palm was warm and rough, and I felt it all the way up my arm.

I should have told him he could let go.

I didn't.

I felt his thumb move, once, across the inside of my wrist, and then go still.

His breath caught.

He pretended to look at the bottle.

He's tired, I told myself. He's been sleeping in a motel for a week.

"She's got a good appetite," he said, and his voice was rough.

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