I hold Dante in my arms while I wait for the microwave to finish warming the bottle. I've seen Fiorella prepare it so many times that I've learned just by watching. The sun hasn't fully risen yet, even though the clock already reads five in the morning.
I watch the seconds pass and think, How did I get to this point? I look at the child's reflection in the microwave glass and find it amusing how he plays with the tie hanging around my neck. He doesn't have a fever at the moment, and the one he had when I arrived last night subsided at around three in the morning.
I stayed awake waiting for him to wake up and look for his bottle, but he didn't until just recently. When I noticed he wouldn't, I got up carefully to avoid waking him and approached his mother to touch her forehead and cheeks
