Cole, a biker by trade and temperament, has not crossed the threshold of St. Mary’s Hospital to leave in forty-seven days. His life has narrowed to the spartan confines of the NICU. He catches sleep in the stiff, unforgiving chairs of the waiting room. His meals come from the hum of the vending machine. When he needs to wash, he uses the staff bathroom, a quiet courtesy extended to him by the nursing team.
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In room number four, a tiny infant weighs a mere three pounds. Her existence is tethered to the world by a tube down her throat and a network of wires taped firmly to her chest. She lacks a name, identified only by the “Baby Girl Doe” printed on her plastic wristband.
She is not his daughter.
He never even knew her mother’s name.
