ASHAL
I stand beside the incubator, my palms resting on the cool edge of the plastic dome, watching my son sleep. His chest rises in soft, steady movements now, no longer the erratic flutter that haunted the first days after his birth. His skin, once alarmingly translucent, has gained a healthy blush. He looks stronger.
The doctor clears his throat gently behind me.
"Mr. Rollins," he says, his voice warm, "I'm pleased to tell you your son is doing exceptionally well. His vitals have stabilized, his lungs are functioning normally, and he's feeding properly."
I turn slowly. For a moment I cannot speak.
Doctor Ezra smiles, folding his hands together. He has been our family physician for decades, long enough that he remembers us as children racing through the hallways of our first estate, long enough that he still calls my mother Liz when he forgets himself.
"Which means," he continues, "he's ready to go home."
