I knock on the door. My knuckles are sore from punching through the boards with the kids at the dojang this morning. Two white cardboard boxes in my hands are full of eclairs, cannoli, and cupcakes. Mom insisted I bring Angie something.

"Come on in," a voice shouts from inside the room.

I put the boxes on one of my hands and hold on to the top lid with my chin to free my other hand and open the door. The room is full of people. Don't they monitor how many can be inside? Tall's nurses said he couldn't have more than two visitors at a time.

This looks more like a party than a visit to a hospital facility, and the room is way too small for the five people who are already inside. Where is the baby? Or a place for a baby to sleep? Where can I put down the boxes? The only available surfaces— the bedside table and a tray the patient can move to eat on—are on the opposite side of the bed from me. Am is standing at the foot of Angie's bed, and a bulky medical-grade trashcan is behind her, blocking the walkway.

"Last but not least." Angie greets me, and I know she doesn't mind that I didn't get here first thing in the morning. I was subbing for Mike at the dojang because he was in no shape to do so after the night they had. The kids wanted to know about the baby, and I promised I would have photos the next time I see them. Moving with students through meditation, stretching, and basic punches and kicks woke me up better than any coffee would have.

"Where's the baby?" I ask.

"She's in NICU. You can go visit, but it's two visitors at a time."

At least one department in this hospital has some sense. Two visitors at a time is a much better policy. Does baby Kora have hair, or is she bald? She will grow up to be tall if Mike and Angie's height is any indicator, but being three weeks early, she's probably smaller than Alex was when I first saw him. Jaimie and her husband aren't short either, but they are a head shorter than Kora's parents. I nod at the door.

"Can we go now?"

"I thought you were visiting me, but with you, it's all about the baby, isn't it? You're going to spoil Kora more than you spoil Alex. I can't wait for you to have kids of your own." Angie's smile is wide, along with the smiles on her parents' and Mike's faces. Kids of my own. She worded it as if it's not a dream but a plan, as if I can be a father—will be a father. A good father.

Am isn't smiling. She's focused on the boxes in my hands.

"This is for you." I stretch the boxes toward Angie. "The leftover desserts from the party. I don't think you got to try my cannoli."

Angie laughs, winces, and glances at her husband.

"Give them to me," says Mike.

"I'll eat one as soon as the doctor clears me for food," she says. "Anyone else wants dessert?"

"I'd have a cannoli, especially if you made them," says Rose.

"I'd have one too," says Fred.

The box makes rounds among them, and the sweet smell of ricotta, vanilla, and pastry fills the room. Mom was right—bringing something was a great idea. There's a knock at the door, and a nurse peeks in.

"Oh my, I'm going to ask you guys to leave. The doctor's here to do a checkup. The husband can stay, but the rest of you will have to relocate into the waiting room. Is that a box of cannoli I see? I hope you didn't eat any." She raises her eyebrows, squints, and eyes Angie.

"Not yet, but I plan on it as soon as I can. Ben's food is amazing. You should try them."

"I just might do that after we're through with your checkup, honey. Let's go, everyone. Out, and I'll find you when she's ready for you to come back in."

"Ben, can you take one of the boxes to the nurse's station? They might enjoy the desserts, and I'll keep the second one here." Angie looks at Mike and gestures to the unopened box next to him and then at me. "Thank you for all you do, Natalie, you've been so much help." Angie gives the nurse her performer smile and the nurse smiles back.

The desserts are a success. The nurses can not agree which treat is better, but only because they love all three. The eclairs were my favorite, but I know how to make those. I could've made them for Am if she would've asked. The plan for this week is to master the cupcakes. Mine never went beyond the basic vanilla or chocolate, and the sea salt and caramel kind I ate last night had an explosive flavor that shattered the notion of static sweetness I was expecting.

Am's sitting next to me on the chair in front of the nurse's station. Today she's still the new Amelie, but patches of the old one are peeking through. There's no perfume or jewelry today. Her face has only traces of makeup, and the light-blue t-shirt has small drop-shaped stains on the bottom. She's not wearing heels. I feel comfortable—the most comfortable I've felt for a couple of days.

Rose and Fred went to the cafeteria after skipping the airplane food on the flight from Brazil. There were several meals I ate in first class that had flavor and an appetizing smell, but as a general rule, I skip airplane food. And airport food. And cafeteria food. And mall food. When was the last time I was at a mall? Probably when I got my watch. My thoughts about food make more sense. It's noon already.

My forearm is on the armrest of my chair, and Am's elbow is on the armrest of hers. There's an inch of space between us, and that's where I can feel my skin: every hair, every goosebump. My breath burns a trail down my throat, and my chest rises as my lungs expand and contract. My arm shifts, and her elbow touches mine. I count my breaths. One Mississipi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. Am's elbow is still in place.

I'm hyper-aware of every movement she makes next to me, every change in position as she crosses and then uncrosses her legs. Her elbow keeps touching mine. She taps her fingers together, and the consistent soft, measured noise they make soothes me. The mixture of excitement and relaxation is comforting. I begin to remember why I got addicted to her presence the first time around.

"Do you need help cleaning up after the party?" Am breaks the silence.

I haven't thought about that yet. I did put the food away when I got home from the hospital last night. The yard is still a mess. The tables and chairs need to go.

"When is the rental company picking up the tables and chairs?" I ask.

"Oh, my God. I forgot about those." Am concentrates on her phone—brows knitted together, faint lines form between her temples and the corners of her eyes, then disappear, when tension leaves her face, and the corners of her lips turn up. "We're fine. It's tomorrow. I panicked for a second."

Good. I have time to deal with the yard.

"I'm visiting Tall next," I say, "and then I'll be home the rest of the day. You can come, and after the cleanup, we can start talking about the book. I'm back to working on the assignment for Jaimie. She needs it completed by the end of next week, and it's more bitcoin analysis than I've ever done. It'll take time."

"Can I go visit Tall too? Mike's going to swing by the apartment to take a shower and change, so he can take Rose and Fred there. I feel responsible for Tall's fall. Visiting him is the least I can do."

"Why would you be responsible for the fall? It was my fault. I didn't fix the paver that got loose when I yanked your heel out."

"He fell carrying the platter with the dessert I was stupid enough to buy."

"But if not for the paver, he would've been fine."

"If not for the heavy stand, he would've been fine too." Amelie pauses. "Are we arguing about which one of us is more guilty?"

"It sounds that way. Tall can be the tiebreaker."

***

Baby Kora is tiny and yellow. The box around her and the sensors attached to her chest look too big. She has the same blue and pink striped hat Jaimie's Alex had when they brought him home from the hospital. I touch the tiniest human hand I've ever seen, and she wraps her fingers around mine. She's nothing like Alex, but I can take her out in the stroller for a run with me, as I did with him. After she's out of this box.

"How long will she have to stay here?"

"We are waiting for her to gain weight and for her lung function to improve, but she's doing as well as can be expected."

"When can she go home?" I rephrase my question in case the nurse didn't get what I was asking.

"It's up to the doctors." Does she not want to answer my question? Why not say that? "It's time for her feeding. Let me take you guys back, and I'm going to get her Mommy."

The tiny hand grabs my finger tighter when I attempt to remove it.

"She likes you," says Amelie.

"Not yet, but I hope she will. This is the grasp reflex. It lasts till the baby is five or six months old. I researched it when I was babysitting Alex."

"You're probably right, but don't babies feel such things? Feel a good person?"

I'm a good person then.

"I haven't researched that," I say.

***

Tall's room is the same size as Angie's was, but the linoleum is beige instead of grey, and it shows more wear and tear. The vinyl couch on the opposite wall is beige too, and the picture above it is of abstract circles, instead of the sunflower field that Angie had in hers. Tall's flipping through the channels on the large screen TV.

"Visitors, finally. I thought I'd have to die alone." Tall's been joking about death a bit too much after the fall. Every joke has a modicum of truth. A grain of truth? I can't recall the exact phrase or who said it. Concern joins guilt in my head. Tall may be more depressed than I thought.

"Thank you for volunteering to help with the onesie decorating contest," Amelie says to Tall. "I was overwhelmed. I wouldn've managed it without you stepping in. Can I give you a hug? I was going to hug you at the party, but it got so busy we never got to do it. I promise I'll be careful."

Am and her hugs. How could I forget?

"Of course, you can, my dear, of course, you can."

"We have a question for you," I say when they're done hugging.

"Of course you do. How can I help, my boy?"

"Did you fall because the stand with the desserts was too heavy for you or because you tripped over the paver outside?"

"I tripped," says Tall.

So it was my fault. It is my fault. I should've fixed it.

"But not over the paver. Over the threshold, of all things. I've stepped over that thing a hundred times before, but I was looking at the kids running around the yard instead of my feet, so I fell."

"So neither Amelie nor I are guilty?"

"Of my fall? Is that what you two are trying to decide? Who's to blame? Well, my dear children, you've found your culprit. I'm to blame. What do you have to say about that?"

I have nothing to say about that. Amelie doesn't seem to have anything to say about it either, because she remains silent.

"Now that that's settled, tell me everything, and I want to see the photos. Kora, is it? What's Mike's last name?"

"Stavros," I say.

"Kora Stavros. A nice greek name. Did you know that Kora, or Kore, is another name for Persephone, a Greek goddess? I've never gotten my hands on the English translation of the first edition of Homer's Odessey. What was the line? 'And come to the house of Hades and dread Persephone to seek sooth saying of the spirit of Theban Teiresias.'" Tall switches from the oratorial voice to his normal one. "Two metal hips or not, but my memory is in working order."

The dust is settling. Or is it?

What do you think is going to happen next?

The tabs on my computer that I needed to research for this chapter: reflexes in babies, Odyssey by Homer, price of the first edition of the English translation of the Odessey (US$30,000), Wikipedia page for Persephone, flights from Brazil to Chicago, mother and baby care postpartum unit in UChicago (virtual tour, they even have the picture on the sunflower field there), thesaurus, hip fractures in the elderly. Each chapter has a trail of open tabs that tell a story.

NaNoWriMo Day 9: 19, 533 words. Only 588 words today so far, but I have time to catch up.