I saw my daughter and my mind went blank. For a long time I did not know where I was, who I was, or what the next step should be. I only knew I was holding Mia. The fire alarms were still going, water was still falling from the ceiling, and people were shouting, but all of that turned into a low hum that didn't touch me. I sat on the wet floor and held her. I remember thinking one small, simple thing: if I stay very still, maybe the world will also stay still.
There was no breath against my cheek. There was no small pulse under my fingers. I said her name. I said it again. Nothing changed. My brain kept trying to make a list like I always do in a crisis—call a nurse, find a doctor, hit a button—but the list would not start. It was like a hand had erased the board inside my head.
I wrappe
