Follow Through

We are in a hospital in the belly of our broken baby. Or so I suspect, because there is milk everywhere, and sand in the room’s corners and all the crannies of its machinery. There’s a nurse with an empty clipboard asking the names of those of us sitting in a line down the hallway. You grip my arm and tell me to go with it. I tell the nurse our names and she frowns. She withdraws a needle from her own vein and plunges it into your thigh then my thigh and we collapse. We’re not out, just still. You look at me like it’s okay and don’t worry. I try to look at you like where are we and how did we get here but I’m tearing up from not being able to blink, and the liquid is smothering my cheeks and chin, and my eyes can only rock back and forth like I’m soothing the phosphorescent lamps above the gurneys we’re being placed on.

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