3:07. I drag covers, swing legs, sit upright, settle a bobbing fetus, land, dress, collect. I’ll regret not doing this. I lift our sleeping daughter to my shoulder, and summon you with diaper bag.

We exit a hotel room into a full, still parking lot. The warm air, like silk, slides onto my vessel-laden surfaces; my lungs are my forest, glistening.

Inhale, exhale. Nothing freezes. What a treat.

It’s not like you don’t know. Something has blown your breasts to the PSI of a birthday balloon, your body forgot to bleed. Still, you run to the drugstore to back your suspicion with a pink-taxed, twenty-dollar white stick.